


The First Few Lives of John Watson with Sherlock Holmes

by Cynic_al



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 30,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cynic_al/pseuds/Cynic_al
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“[T]here are people, living among us, who do not die. …they are born, and they live, and they die and they live again, the same life, a thousand times.” The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August - Claire North</p><p>John Watson is just such a person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I highly recommend reading the book The First Fifteen Lives Harry August by Claire North if only because it's such a great book. My story takes place in the same universe but doesn't crossover into Harry's story. I think I've explained the concept of being a Kalachakra fairly well, but if you're still lost by the end of the first full chapter leave a comment and I'll do my best to flesh it out or you could read the book whatever floats your boat! Thanks for reading.  
> Later, Cynic.

_“ [T]here are people, living among us, who do not die. …they are born, and they live, and they die and they live again, the same life, a thousand times.”_ The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August - Claire North

 

Prologue

I was dying when I first met Sherlock Holmes, I was suffering a severe infection and blood-loss due to a shrapnel wound to the stomach. I knew I was dying, I was slightly put out by the fact and was looking to con a nurse into giving me some extra morphine to speed my departure. God knows why Sherlock was in Camp Bastion, but he happened to be wandering down my ward and stopped when he saw me.

“You’re dying,” he said abruptly frowning.

“I know,” I said.

“I know you know,” said Sherlock, his frown deepening, “But why aren’t you a wailing mess like your counterparts?”

“It’s only death,” I said.

“That’s a very rational attitude, oh wait you’re not one of those religious people are you?” he asked.

“Not lately,” I said with an amused huff, “there isn’t a religion that covers me.”

“And what are you?” he asked.

“I am just a man with a past, and future that are one in the same,” I said.

“I should look at what drugs you’re on and get some for myself,” he said glancing at my chart. 

“Not enough morphine is what I’m on, but if you could snitch me an extra bottle I’d be grateful of the smooth ride into the abyss.”

“You’re asking me to help you commit suicide,” said Sherlock, “you don’t even know who I am.”

“I know you don’t belong here,” I said taking a deep breath as a sudden painful wave went through my body, “You’re not military, and you’re not a doctor. You’re too old to be here for me and I’m too young for someone to need information from my past. I’d say you’re a diplomat’s relative who’s wandered off the regular tour.”

“You’re very astute for a soldier,” said Sherlock, “it’s a shame you’re dying I meet so few interesting people.”

“I know what you mean,” I said sighing as Sherlock injected something into my IV. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, “it won’t take long that was purified heroine.”

“Interesting indeed,” I said, feeling the drug take effect drip by drip, “perhaps we’ll meet again in another life.”

“I only have one,” he said before the world faded and I died without even knowing his name.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson the early lives...

The next time I met Sherlock Holmes I had been invalided back to London. An unfortunate run-in with a sniper that nearly took my shoulder off and killed me outright. Not for the first time I was considering simply ending my life there; though I was still relatively young.  
I had earned my MD and made a name for myself in the RAMC; a reputation that was now worthless with my discharge. My shoulder hurt and the pain had reactivated remembered pain from an injury I had sustained in my fourth life, a bullet wound that shattered my femur and left me with a severe limp for the remainder of that life. 

Sherlock Holmes sized me up in one look and completely missed the most interesting thing about me. I am kalachakra or ouroboran, one who lives his life in circles, constantly born to live again.

I am lucky in a sense as an ouroboran to not know my true origins. I was an orphan abandoned on the steps of a church in a tiny town in the south of England. A town so small that the address of the church is simply, The Church on The Street. I don’t know who my parents were, I don’t know where they came from. Centuries to research, interview and back trace people from the area. As near as I can tell a heavy set woman unknown to anyone in town stopped in the pub, and asked to use the bathroom, no one saw her leave and no one saw her again. I can’t even be certain she was pregnant or that she was my mother. When I was found on the church steps that morning, the doctor said I was a healthy full-term baby no more than a month old, but possibly younger.  
The priest named me John for John the baptist, and the church office manager gave me the rest of my name, she was Scottish and loved the name Hamish. I should thank her for that one day.

I was fostered to Margret and Harold Jenson they had a three year old daughter named Harry. I am ashamed to say I didn’t appreciate their love for what it was. At least not in my first life. In my first life I was a criminal, no that’s too kind. In my first life I was a thug; angry at the world, for reasons I couldn’t explain today, at the lot I had been dealt. 

My foster father expected me to join the military and serve as he had done, but I would have none of it. I ran away to London and fell in with a violent gang. I was stabbed four times before I was thirty and the last time killed me. I was reborn and again placed on the church steps, and when I started to remember my life I thought I was mad. The church thought I was possessed and I was sent away. I lived for a few years trying to understand knowing things that were going to happen and not knowing why or what I was. I killed myself when I was 12 by breaking out one of the panes of stained glass in the rectory. 

The Chronos club found me in my third life barely legal drunk and strung out babbling to anyone who would listen about living over and over again. A woman called Charlotte explained what I was and what it meant. I was still too angry to really to take it in. I was grateful to know I wasn’t alone in this, but I still felt that I was being dealt a raw deal and I made it my goal to test this unlimited deaths and rebirths theory. I went out and did as many dangerous things as I could think of. In fact it took me five lives to even find a natural death; heart disease in my seventies. 

Mary died first, she was my rock, the one who got through the anger and the pain and found me, she found me and saved me. She was the one who gave me the name Watson, it was the name she had chosen for her new life, with a back handed reference to her old one too. Watson means powerful warrior. We were married 47 years and to this day I don’t know her real name. I don’t think she knew I suspected her deceit, but I would never have called her on it, I have my own secrets after all.

When I was born again I didn’t have the heart to seek her out. I sought to see my life through calmer eyes, I saw my parents anew, they loved me in a way I had never seen before through the cloud of untamed anger. I was determined to make my adoptive parents proud to make up for being such an utter failure in those first few lives. I joined the army as John Watson and I found that I liked it. The fire that Mary had quelled in me still burned, and learning discipline, fighting, and strategy kept it at bay. I excelled and was chosen for officer school. Somehow it arose that I was a natural leader and I moved up the ranks quickly. When I made captain, my mother cried and my father saluted me. I was killed in Afghanistan when our convoy hit an IED. 

Now a couple hundred years older, I was able to focus on living a better life, learning in school became fun and useful. I set my sights on going to college. I visited the local Chronos club and got advice on how to live as one of them, one of us. I studied and got my degree in history. I wanted to understand what I was and what that meant for the world I lived in. I ended up a professor and taught for the remainder of my life learning more about my current events than I had in any of my prior lives. In my next few lives I traveled learning languages and cultures that I had seen through aged eyes as an academic. I found I missed the purpose I found in military service, so I joined up again, this time with a mind to learn medicine. I studied at Bart’s before being deployed overseas I toured several bases before finding myself once more in Afghanistan and once more at death’s door. Only this time I survived.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft

Chapter Two

The furor with which I had approached my rebirths since Mary had calmed somewhat. While the army had helped to give me focus and purpose once more, I now found myself aimless and somewhat bored with what my life had amounted to. Some kalachakra spend many lives learning many disciplines, medicine, religion, philosophy, history, sciences, etc… searching for answers in the realms of infinite human knowledge. I have found that I am a practical man, and spending decades navel gazing was not something I felt I needed to do. Life is life, and for us, life simply goes on and on. I had reached boredom, spending several centuries reliving the same period of history can do that to you. 

I thought to end my life after my discharge, I had spent many of my boring monotonous days listing all the professions I wanted to try when I grew up again. I was thinking of trying the law. A law degree would help me rise in rank faster and help avoid combat, and with my already prodigious knowledge base I could perhaps move up to Major, and aim for Colonel in later years. General was a no go, because it came with the power to affect changes that might have ripple effects on the future. So maybe not law, maybe another branch of medicine or an obscure speciality. I could do research into cures for diseases, better treatments or…well the lists went on. 

On the day in question I went for a walk trying desperately to convince my body that the pain it felt belonged to a body that had been dead for centuries. I was frustrated and depressed and I really didn’t want to run into any old school friends. Stamford was my friend in the sense that he was the one who had been assigned as my lab partner along with two other students and with whom I spent a great deal of time memorizing body parts. 

The coffee was overly sweet and the conversation awkward. The only reason I agreed to return to Bart’s with him was I literally had nothing else to do. That decision had far reaching consequences even I with all my years could not have predicted. 

I was of course aware of Sherlock Holmes, in a way that one might know the name of a random celebrity, but not really know why they’re famous. I had heard the name whispered here and there during my time on the streets of London, and in later lives I had read a few bits and pieces in newspapers while I was deployed and at home. Vague references to crime solving, and murders and later a small note that he had been found apparently having committed suicide. I remember when I was working as a thug for a local gang one of the men mentioned the big boss was pissed because he thought Holmes would go the distance. Whatever that meant. 

When I was kidnapped by Mycroft Holmes, I knew him as a kalachakra, but he obviously didn’t recognize me as one. I had been a skinny strung out 17 year old, and he was a posh twenty-something with nothing but distain for anyone he perceived below him. He just turned his nose up when Charlotte had brought me to the club to dry out. I wouldn’t have even noticed him except that Charlotte had said “Don’t mind him, Mycroft is still learning that your point of origin is not the be all and end all.” You don’t come across that many Mycrofts in the world, and even though he was older I still recognized that look of patronizing distaste at my less that salubrious beginnings, and it was swiftly apparent that the intervening lives hadn’t changed him as much as they had changed me.

What did surprise me was that Sherlock was his brother, most kalachakra become bored with their families after a few lives, and tend to let them fade into the background after the obligatory childhood period. I maintain special occasion contact with my foster parents, and sister. Harry was born three years before me, and unfortunately didn’t have the extra lifetimes to figure out what she was so angry about, she doused her fire with alcohol and made it burn hotter. I’ve tried through several lives to get her to straighten out, but have found that she cannot or simply will not. As Sherlock correctly surmised I don’t go to my family for help. 

I shot Jefferson Hope on instinct; a snap decision. That entire night had been the most fun I’d had in decades, perhaps even centuries. Sherlock Holmes was my cure for the utter boredom and indolence that comes from living over again. I wasn’t about to let him leave after only a few hours.

A couple of months later Mycroft sent another car for me. I was surprised it took him so long to be honest. Anthea was on her blackberry, I knew her name was really Sandra and we’d dated once in a previous life, but it was a short lived fling and I wasn’t about to blow her cover. The car took me to the Chronos club, and I knew that I’d been rumbled. I made my way to one of the sitting rooms at the rear and found Mycroft reading a paper. I took the seat beside him and ordered a drink. 

“So did you remember me, or did someone else here tell you?” I asked.

“Charlotte mentioned how far you’d come in just a few lives, when she saw that article in the paper about the jade hair pin.” 

“Ah,” I said smiling as I turned to accept my drink and sit back in my chair. “So, what is it you wanted to speak to me about?”

“I wish to know why you have endeared yourself to my brother, the only linear I have even the most fleeting connection to.”

“I thought we had this conversation already, and I wasn’t intimated that time either,” I said.

“That was before I knew what you were,” said Mycroft, “is this some way to get to me?”

“You are still full of yourself Mycroft,” I said, “I met Sherlock by chance, at a moment when I was actually thinking on starting over. He distracted me from the sharp turn this life took when that bullet entered my shoulder.”

“So that’s all he is, a distraction from the repetition?” asked Mycroft.

“We made friends,” I said shaking my head, “he’s what I needed to move on from my army plans, and he needs the grounding I provide. We work together, and its the first relationship of any kind I’ve had that I gave a damn about since I died with my wife a century ago.”

“If you hurt him I will endeavor to end you existence,” said Mycroft. I laughed out loud at that, much to Mycroft’s consternation. 

“I find it so amusing that you think you can threaten me. I’ve killed more times than I care to count, but rest assured that scarier men and women than you have tried to intimidate me and failed. Your brother is safe from me, and thanks to me as well. You should be grateful that your brother has connected with someone who cannot be bribed, or threaten with death and who is fully capable of protecting him no matter the cost.”

“He already has someone,” said Mycroft tightly.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft, but I don’t think your brother appreciates your brand of concern. I don’t know what all happened while you were growing up, but you might want to rethink your approach for the next life. If it helps I don’t get on with my sister, and I don’t know any of our kind that’s especially close to their parents and other family after several lives piling up.”

“I am aware of the convention,” said Mycroft, “but I take my familial responsibility seriously in every life.”

“For a man like you Sherlock’s insistent independence must frustrate you to no end.”

“To put it mildly,” said Mycroft, “I truly only want what’s best for him, and unfortunately have yet to see him find a natural end.” 

I was surprised, but not really shocked that Sherlock’s actions had led to his death on a few occasions, but Mycroft was at least as old as me, to have never found his brother’s path to safety? It must tear him apart that this was the fate of someone he cared for and could not avoid meeting again in each life only to lose him.

“I’m sorry,” I said knowing it was inadequate.

“I’ve tried everything, I’ve hired people to watch him, people to befriend him, blackmailed his cohorts, and people who tried to get close to him. I had his more dangerous foes eliminated before becoming a threat. I even left him to his own devices completely,” said Mycroft, “it would appear that no matter the circumstances my brother is not long for this world.”

“Has he ever had any real friends?” I asked, “People you didn’t pay, or blackmail or scare off?”

“A few passing acquaintances, but nothing close. No romantic entanglement either, I’m not sure he’s aware of that side of life except where it relates to his work.”

“Barely even then,” I said with a small smile.

“I still find myself wondering your intentions towards my brother, Dr. Watson,” said Mycroft. 

“My intent is only to live Mycroft,” I said, “Sherlock gave me a purpose when I was floundering and I haven’t found a true connection with another person since my wife. Sex isn’t the be all and end all, but honest human connection is hard to come by, at least for me. I’ll be Sherlock’s friend for as long as he’ll tolerate me, and I have no other plans beyond that.” My phone buzzed with a text.

New case looks interesting, meet me at Baker st. —SH

“It appears we have reached an impasse,” said Mycroft.

“I don’t know if it’s possible,” I said standing up, “but perhaps we could try to find some sort of a civil relationship, I wouldn’t suggest you deign to become friends with me, but we both clearly care about Sherlock and that should be enough common ground to be going on with.”

“Perhaps,” said Mycroft, and with a slight nod he returned to his paper.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty

Chapter Three

My life with Sherlock was never boring, and that first year definitely had it’s moments. After being kidnapped by the Chinese mafia, I had taken to carrying my gun around with me wherever I went. But when I was jumped by six men, and one of them had a hypodermic needle, my gun was left unfired on the ground. While the abduction was professional, the next part well…it was weird.

“Hello there John,” said Jim, Molly’s boyfriend, at first I wondered why he was sideways, but then I realized I was lying on a bench. When I started to sit up he helped me, smoothing the huge duffle-coat I was now wearing. 

“I don’t understand,” I said, because I really didn’t and for someone as old as I am, it was actually an unfamiliar feeling.

“That’s okay dear,” said Jim, “You’re not here for your brains, you’re just the cherry on the cake of my brilliant game.” Then it clicked, this man was behind the pips and was obsessed with Sherlock enough to insert himself into our lives by dating Molly. Poor girl, I thought, scowling at Jim.

“So I’m the last pip am I?” I asked and finally noticed the vest of C4 strapped to my body. Suddenly I knew I didn’t want to die now, I wanted to live, and help Sherlock and have adventures and experience life in a way I never had before. I would not die at the hands of this madman. My hands weren’t bound and we were sat in a locker room. I could smell the chlorine and realized where we must be. For a man who claims to be a sociopath Sherlock is awfully sentimental. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

In my fourth life, I was shot in the leg. I was running from a particularly screwed up robbery attempt. While I had merely been acting as look-out my ‘partner’ decided I had outlived my usefulness and shot me, in order, I suppose, to delay authorities from their pursuit of him. My leg was shattered, literally, I had to have several operations to insert various pins, rods and screws in order that I would not lose my leg completely. During most of this period, I was in what can only be termed a drugged haze. During this altered state I had made some comments to the effect that I lived over again, and should probably kill myself so that I don’t have to bother about healing up from this injury. Also some graphic descriptions of what I would do to my former partner should I get a hold of him again in any life.

Once I was stable, I was swiftly transferred to the psych ward. I claimed that I was out of my head on pain meds, but the psychologist decided I was a risk to myself and others. It didn’t make much difference while I was still bed-ridden, but once I was mobile the question of my mental state became an issue, for both myself and the authorities who were waiting to transfer me to some kind of detention facility. I was looking at six to ten for my part in the break-in, but would probably get less because of the utter failure that it was. My brief implied that he was going to plead the case down on account of my mental deficiencies. In this life I hadn’t even finished school before running away to London. I was sentenced to two years in a minimum security mental health facility, most of which I spent relearning how to walk and finishing my GSCE’s by post. Oh, and getting therapy. 

I was diagnosed with anti-social personality disorder. My psychologist’s notes, which even back then I could read upside down, said I was probably a psychopath, but because I hadn’t been convicted of a violent crime and didn’t have violent outbursts, she wasn’t going to officially state that as a diagnosis. 

When I left eighteen months later, they said I was managing my condition well and left it at that. I was intrigued and studied psychology. Because of the conviction on my record I couldn’t practice, but the Chronos club, particularly Charlotte, was so happy I was showing interest in something other than things that could get me killed, they helped me get through school and into college. 

I met Mary while she was finishing her nursing degree. She was volunteering at the clinic where I was still getting physical therapy for my leg. I talked to her more about myself than I spoke to anyone else. I talked to her about feeling angry all the time, and not knowing how to function without lashing out at people. She wasn’t scared when I talked about my violent past. 

“I can always run away, if you get cheeky,” she said when I asked her why. I knew she was like me then, with her own demons vying for her attention and I resolved not to be the one to pull them out into the light. Once I was finished with physical therapy she got me into boxing, and some rudimentary martial arts classes. “It’s all a system of control,” she said, “you’ve got to be the one to choose how it comes out and when. ”

In school I studied abnormal psychology and criminal profiling. I agreed with the hospital doctor that I was somewhere in that grey area when anti-social meets psychopath. My fire burns at birth, but has been tempered by the lives I’ve lived and the experiences I retain over my lifetimes. I still need to give it an outlet, a place to burn safely, that’s what I learned from Mary, not to douse the flames of my rage, which is what the doctors wanted from me, but to direct them. After Mary I chose the army to give me that direction, and later I chose Sherlock.

Sherlock’s contention that he’s a high-functioning sociopath is only marred by the fact that he actually does feel things quite acutely. A sociopath doesn’t flinch even minutely at an insult that’s probably been hurled at him more than his real name. I don’t know what Mycroft or their parents did to him did in their youth to teach him to hide any trace of feelings from the world. The training was extremely effective, but it’s clear that while Mycroft is very much not a normal man he strives to fit into a certain mold, one that he’s also tried unsuccessfully to stuff Sherlock into. If Sherlock truly didn’t care he wouldn’t resent Mycroft, and he would not be the world’s only consulting detective.

When I looked into the eyes of James Moriatry, I saw a true psychopath, someone who would tear down the world on a whim. And here I was sitting in a swimming pool changing room in a vest covered in C4. I’m not completely ignorant of explosives, so when he had the guards put the earpiece on me, I was able to pull out a couple of wires that would disarm the bomb. One less thing to worry about, but I was still grievously outnumbered and outgunned.

Moriarty straightened the front of my coat smiling. 

“There you go,” he said patting the closure, “ready for the big reveal. Oh, I can’t wait to see his face when he realizes what’s going to happen. It’ll be priceless.”

“I’m going to kill you,” I said. It wasn’t a threat or warning, it was just my realization that in the end that’s what I would do. Even if I died here, I would spend my next life finding and killing this man and perhaps make a point of it in future lives as well. “I could make it a project,” I said smiling at his confused expression, “For Sherlock and I, I mean, we could spend a while hunting you down and then I’d kill you.”

“You’re very confident,” said Moriarty, “for a man with enough C4 on his body to level a city block. You could be dead in just a few minutes.”

“That won’t stop me,” I said. He laughed and walked away.


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pool

Chapter Four

I was pleased that Sherlock had brought my back-up gun, I was less pleased that he’d set up this meeting without human back-up, the idiot. I scanned the balcony for the snipers and saw two. Doable, but the likelihood I would sustain a fatal shot before killing both was significant, also I had to deal with Sherlock and Moriarty as well. Problematic.

They walked towards me Moriarty behind, Sherlock in front holding my back-up gun. When they were close enough I acted. I grabbed Sherlock by the arm pulling my gun from his hand and putting myself in front of him, then I turned and shot Moriarty, shoved Sherlock into the pool and took aim at the snipers, they got a couple of shots off before I took them out and collapsed. Sherlock dragged himself out of the pool and over to me. Thankfully the snipers had been trying not to set off the explosives, so one had shot me in the leg and the other had gone for a headshot and grazed my shoulder.

Sherlock was looking at me with an expression that way two parts ‘idiot’ and one part ‘What the hell?”.

“Get this thing off me!” I said sitting up and struggling with the jacket and the bomb vest. “I disarmed it, but it’s probably best not temp fate at this point.” He helped me remove the coat and device and flung it to the far end of the room. I felt for the wound on my shoulder and realized it was only a graze. My left leg was bleeding freely and I was lucky not to have been taken out by the femoral artery.

“Give me your belt for a tourniquet. And call an ambulance for god’s sake. I don’t want to bleed to death after all that,” I said. Sherlock followed my directions without questions without words even until he pulled a phone off Moriarty’s body and called 999. Much sooner than expected sirens pierced the silence, and not much later I was pulled down into unconsciousness by exhaustion, and blood-loss. The last thing I saw was Sherlock’s pale face still giving me that look of utter disbelief.

I woke up to the beep of a heart monitor and the rustle of newspaper. Mycroft peered over the metro section at me.

“John,” he said, “Sherlock should be back momentarily, I think he was checking with the doctor regarding your unwillingness to wake up.” He smirked and put down the paper as he stood up. “Nice shooting by the way, you got both shooters dead center.”

“Not so good at dodging,” I said wincing as I repositioned myself on the bed. Mycroft pressed the button on the bed to raise the head a little, and even poured me a cup of water from the plastic jug on the bedside table. “Thank you,” I said taking a welcome sip of the cool liquid. “What did the doctor say about my leg?”

“Flesh wound,” said Mycroft absently, “something about missing vital arteries by millimeters.”

“Thank god, the last time I was shot in the leg I ended up with more metal in me than the bionic man,” I smiled at Mycroft.

“I've taken the liberty of ensuring that you’ll get the best physical therapy possible, it’s the least I can do. Your actions will take some cleaning up to do, especially with the extensive web of crimes that Moriarty was involved in.”

“I take it Moriarty is dead as well?” I asked.

“Very,” said Mycroft. A flicker of emotion crossed his face.

“You knew about him then?” I asked.

“We knew of him,” said Mycroft, “but this is the first time Sherlock has come into direct contact with him and his organization. Thanks to you we can now go about dismantling his network much earlier than we’ve ever been able to.”

“You're welcome,” I said drily. Mycroft walked towards the door, but stopped and turned back.

“Sherlock should be back soon. I just wanted to say thank you, for keeping your word and protecting him.”

“He’s my friend Mycroft, perhaps in the next life you should try it out.” He left without answering me and a few minutes later Sherlock swept in.

“You're awake,” he said.

“Well spotted,” I said, “you should be a detective.” Sherlock gave me a twisted smile, like he was trying not to let it fully plant on his face.

“You…you,” his face screwed up as he came closer to the bed, and for the first time I saw he was struggling to find what he wanted to say. “You ruined my suit, chlorine on that material it’ll never be the same again.”  
It was my turn to smile.

“Bill me,” I said.

“What you did…you…,” he frowned again, “Why did you do that?”

“I didn't do anything I'm just lying here,” I said.

“Don't be obtuse John, you know what I meant. Why…?”

“Why did I shoot those snipers poised to kill us? Why did I shoot Moriarty? Did you think I was just going to stand there and let him kill me and you, and who knows how many others?”

“You could have been killed when you pulled me out of the way, you had already disarmed the bomb you could have just left out the back.”

“I knew you were coming, walking directly into the trap, and if Moriarty didn't have me in hand he'd use you to get me back, I'd already seen too much. And a man with an ego that size wasn't going to just let me walk away.”

“So you chose to walk out into firing range of two snipers and what? Hope for the best?” asked Sherlock.

“In my defense I didn't know there would be snipers,” I said.

“Regardless, you were in that position because of me, and you nearly died, and you saved me…and I’m not sure I understand your logic,” said Sherlock.

“It wasn't logic, Sherlock,” I said stifling a laugh.

“Then what was it?” he asked perplexed.

“I don't know, maybe I like you,” I smiled at his wince, “Maybe you're the first friend I had in a long time that I've given more than two shits about. Maybe I just wanted to shoot the man who wrapped me in C4 and smiled at me like I was a moron. You be the judge.”

I didn't lie to Sherlock, that first night when he asked me what I would say if I knew I was going to die. In my first life before I knew I was a kalachakra I lived on the streets of London committing many and varied acts of violence for money. In hindsight it’s a miracle I lived into my twenties at all. I was stabbed twice in the gut and once in the chest while providing ’security’ for a low level drug dealer and his supplier. I didn't know everyone was going to double-cross everyone else. It wasn't an instant death and after it was all over when the survivors fled with the money and the dope I was left still alive bleeding out on the floor.

“Please god let me live.”

Not, as Sherlock would point out several hundred years later, an original thought, but I was a stupid kid dying for a fight I didn't give a shit about, dying because I hadn't really considered the path my life had taken and the choices that I made to bring me here. I was never particularly religious and I can't say that I believe in a god now that I'm better informed, but all I could think of at the time was how fucking stupid I had been and all I wanted was another shot to get it right.

Well…wish granted.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends.

Chapter Five

I went to New Zealand for a couple of weeks after I was released from the hospital. Sherlock was knee deep in a couple of gory experiments and barely noticed I was gone. I needed time to breathe, to make sure that tethering myself to the mad genius was really what I wanted to do for the rest of this life or at least as long as it lasted. My fling with Sarah ended with the vacation, she tried to pry my interest away from Sherlock and ultimately realized that the only thing she could offer me that was different from what Sherlock did was sex and even that wasn’t a sure bet when I was on a case. I like sex don’t get me wrong, but after a certain point of repeating the same years over and over again what you want is a truly good distraction, and Sherlock had that in spades. 

Sarah went home after a week, and I went to see a friend of mine at the local Chronos club. Huiling was someone I met on my travels, she tried to teach me eastern philosophies like zen, and meditation, but what I really got was kung fu training and a good friend.

“It’s so beautiful here,” I said when we sat out on her porch with our drinks.

“It’s too green,” said Huiling pulling a face at the miles of verdant hills rolling out in front of us.

“What about the sky? There’s a lot of blue out there too,” I said.

“Blue? Blue is constant. You know I search for different hues,” she said, “I’m heading back to Hong Kong next month, you’re welcome to join me if you like.”

“I don’t know,” I sighed, and stretched out my leg, still aching from the bullet wound. “I feel like every life I’m always in the path of too many bullets.”

“John you are like the sky, constant in your struggles against your nature. You are like the wind, and the rain, gentle and fierce in turns. You should embrace your powers and accept them and you will find your place.”

“My power is the fight,” I said, “I fight that which is inside me that makes me a violent man.”

“All men are violent John, though most do not acknowledge it. Your power is the knowledge you have, the awareness of the violence and the ability to point it where it can do the most good.”

When I got back Sherlock and I took on more cases, some big, some small. I bumped into another old friend while we were investigating that thing with the melting laptop.

“James Bond, as I live and breathe,” I smiled and took James’ hand.

“John Watson, you are a sight for sore eyes I thought you’d be off in Afghanistan getting your ass shot at around now,” said James.

“Just got back actually,” I said, “and it was the shoulder. Medical discharge.”

“Sorry,” he said nodding his understanding.

“Yeah, so what about you? Still getting your rocks off for queen and country?”

“You know me,” James smiled, “anything for queen and country.”

“I suppose it keeps things interesting at least,” I said.

“There is that,” said James, “and the fringe benefits aren’t bad either. So what are you doing now? Since the discharge? If you want me to I can put in a good word for you with the bosses, you know we need good people and someone with your skills would breeze through the qualifier tests.”

“That’s a tempting offer, I haven’t done the intelligence bit in a while and it might be an interesting distraction. If you’d have asked me six months ago I would have jumped at it, but I’m trying something new with this whole detective thing.”

“Oh, so you’re the one that hooked up with Holmes’ brother, I stopped by the club a couple months ago and he was bitching to Charlotte about this broken down nobody solider who had hooked up with his brother. It’s Sherlock right?”

“Yes, god knows what their mother was thinking, but if the apples didn’t fall far then it might give us some clues,” I said grinning.

James laughed and finished his drink. “Next time you’re coming in with me though right? Between 98 and 99 is when I start and there’s this island off the coast of the Bahamas where the girls fall like coconuts from the trees.”

“Wasn’t that the island with that bloke who was selling Russian missile plans? The one that you torched killing half the population?” I asked.

“I take that guy out on the mainland now much quicker. Then I do a week on the island in his house with all the amenities including the girls,” said James.

“Oh, well,” I said almost smiling, “let’s say in my next one I’ll join you there.”

“Great we’ll meet at the club 97 on the 14th of May say about oneish, I’ll buy you lunch,” said James.

“It’s a date,” I said shaking on it and looking around. “I’d better see where Sherlock’s got to, it’s only a matter of time before he creates an international incident.” 

“Sounds like a man after my own heart, and if you want you can bring him along, might be fun to see Holmes’ face if we draft his brother into the program,” said James.

“I’m sure Sherlock would love it, but we’ll see how this one goes before I commit to bringing him along on the next one,” I said. 

“Whatever you want John,” James looked off to the right, “I see my dance partner, and I’ll see you on the next one.”

“If you want to have a drink sooner just call me, I know you can get my number,” I said.

“I’ll do that, and if you change your mind about my offer this time around give me a call. I know you can get my number,” said James, “bye John.” He walked in his self-assured way through the crowd that parted without even knowing why and I watched James kiss the hand of an attractive brunette before the people closed up around them.

“There you are John!” said Sherlock coming up from behind, “I thought I’d lost you for a moment. What on earth were you doing talking to that spook?”

“James is an old friend,” I said, “we met while I was working at the military hospital in Afghanistan.”

“Oh well never mind that, I found out what I need from the kitchen staff, it was poison,” said Sherlock turning abruptly and making his own less courteous way through the crowd to the door. “Come along John.”

I sighed and shook my head before following in his wake.


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baskerville

Chapter Six

I’ll admit to a modicum of jealousy when it comes to Irene Adler, but only in the sense that I felt left out of the game. It was Holmes vs. Adler and I was just the gooseberry between them making snide comments. I felt almost betrayed because I had chosen Sherlock over all of the other things I could be doing with my unlimited time and he was mooning over a woman who was blatantly playing with him. I could have killed her at the house after she drugged Sherlock, but I could tell she wasn’t a vindictive person, just someone looking for the next entertainment in her life. I can sympathize, but I don’t condone her methods and I’m not talking about the dominatrix bit either. Mycroft must think I’m a moron if he thinks I’d believe that she was dead. I’d almost think he was protecting her from me, if I thought for a second he actually gave a damn about his brother’s emotional well-being. 

I remember the Baskerville case with mixed feelings, I immensely enjoyed pulling rank around the base, but I didn’t enjoy being experimented on by Sherlock or the three solid days I spent in my room having vivid flashbacks from my various violent lives. When Sherlock finally came to check on me I was crammed into the corner of the room with my arms over my head desperately blocking out the shouts and screams and explosions.  
“John?” I heard the door and footsteps that weren’t in the place the gas had taken me, “John?”  
“Don’t come any closer,” I said struggling to keep myself in the now, and out of the then.  
“What can I do?” he asked.  
“Go to my bedside table and get my revolver,” I said through clenched teeth.  
“Yes,” he said and I was startled that he’d moved and I didn’t hear him.  
“Leave and lock the door behind you,” I said.  
“Are you sure that’s the best option?” he asked uncertain for the first time since I’d known him.  
“If you call someone they’ll have me sectioned and it’ll take me months to get out,” I said.  
“John,” he started, and for one horrible moment I thought he might actually apologize for triggering the gas in me and putting my mind in this state.  
“Don’t!” I spat at him, still not looking up. I couldn’t, I couldn’t predict what I would see what I would do if I saw an enemy, or a rival, or a victim. “Just get out!” I didn’t hear him leave only the sound of the lock clicking into place. The next day I found my gun on my desk in the living room empty and clean.

Sherlock never mentioned it, but I know he talked to Lestrade about it. While we were having our weekly pint he asked me how I was doing.

“Did Sherlock put you up to that?” I asked.

“He called yesterday asked if I’d had any reaction to the gas,” said Lestrade.

“Have you?” I asked.

“Some nasty nightmares,” he shrugged and took a swig of beer, “Doctor gave me a clean bill of health and all.”

“Good,” I said.

“What about you? You okay? Sherlock indicated you seemed to be having a harder time of it,” he said as casually as he was able.

“Nightmares,” I said examining the tabletop, “couple of flashbacks.”

“Shit,” he said, “guy stepped on a land-mine course that’d be a trigger for you.” We sat and drank in silence for a minute. 

“You okay, though really? Sherlock’s a prick, but the fact he expressed concern means he must have seen something.”

“He’s not expressing concern he’s expressing guilt,” I said still not feeling remotely charitable about the whole escapade. 

“Over what?” asked Lestrade.

“The first time we were exposed to the gas only he and Henry saw the beast, he wanted to see if he could replicate the experience in a controlled environment,” I said.

“Shit,” he said again, “what did he do?”

“Well at the time he didn’t know what affected him was a gas, he deduced it was something both he and Henry had had but not me, so he stole Henry’s sugar and made me a cup of coffee. I’d already been exposed to the gas anyway so when he locked me in the basement at Baskerville and turned the lights off the already implanted suggestion of the hound and escaped test subjects ran their course.” 

“Fuck,” he said and I gave him a shrug and a smile. “Class act that man.”

“You know the sick of it isn’t that he tried to drug me without my knowledge. It’s actually something that I should have expected from him,” I sighed, “It’s that he used our friendship to do it, pretending that making me a coffee was his inept way of apologizing for being an utter git the night before.”

“Is that a deal breaker for you?” asked Greg.

“I’m still here aren’t I? God help me that I am, but I’m not walking away because of some hurt feelings.”

“It’s a bit more than that mate, look I’ve seen Sherlock break men with a single comment and you’ve been with him over a year it’s no wonder some of the cracks are showing.”

“It’s not just me putting up with him though, I’m a bit twisted all by myself you know,” I said, “I honestly don’t know what I’d do now I’ve had a chance to see this kind of life.”

“I know what you mean,” said Greg.

“We’ll work it out, and there’s some hope in there, if Sherlock’s aware enough to notice that something’s wrong then I think it’s a step in the right direction,” I said.

“Well if you ever need someone to gripe to just give me a call, goodness knows I do it to you more often than’s right anyway. It’s the least I can do. Since you turned up Sherlock’s actually been showing some more humanity than any of the rest of the time I’ve known him.”

“Thanks I’ll probably take you up on that before long,” I said raising my glass to him and taking a swig. We switched to safer topics after that discussing the local football team and the latest rugby scores.

 

I got up late the next morning and found Sherlock on the couch tinkering with his violin. 

“I hope you gave Lestrade my best,” he said barely looking up.

“Tea?” I asked going to the kitchen.

“John I know that you’re still feeling the effects of what happened in Dartmoor,” Sherlock started as I sat down with the cups of tea.  
“Don’t start Sherlock, I’m not in the mood to be deduced right now,” I said and picked up the paper.

“I just want to say that I hope we can still continue as colleagues, and friends,” he said.

“Just out of curiosity,” I said putting the paper down, “what do you see as wrong with the situation?”

“Exposure to the gas obviously caused some great discomfort in the form of some extreme flashbacks, and the return of several of your PTSD symptoms. You may be thinking that associating with me is not in your best interest,” said Sherlock.

“You idiot,” I said shaking my head at his bewildered expression, “I was kidnapped twice last year, and shot. I’ve killed five people for you and you think that some flashbacks are really what’s going to make me question my decision to work with you?”

“Then I don’t understand what’s going on,” said Sherlock.

“There in lies the crux of the problem doesn’t it,” I regarded him carefully trying to see any hint that he understood. “You betrayed my trust,” I said quietly, “I am a man with many issues as Mycroft and my therapist can attest to, but my biggest issue has always been trust. I don’t trust people, and I don’t let them get close to me. Your stunt with the sugar and the coffee, and locking me in the lab to go mad well…”

“But the case,” said Sherlock, “I needed clean data.”

“The case and the questionable scientific integrity of your test aside Sherlock, you used our friendship to manipulate me, you abused my trust with an uncharacteristic act of friendship and you did it without a second thought. Even now you don’t think that what you did was wrong.” I stood up and looked down at him, “I’m not leaving, I’m not abandoning you or anything of the like, but this … this is going to take me a while to really get over, alright?” 

When I got back downstairs after getting changed Sherlock was still in the same position.

“Do you need anything from the store while I’m there?” I asked.

“What did you mean by questionable scientific integrity?” asked Sherlock. 

I rolled my eyes and collapsed into my chair. 

“Christ!” I said, “of course that’d be the only thing you heard. Fine, you want me to talk to you in your own language? Your theory and methodology were flawed and the ‘experiment’ you performed was completely unneeded and worse still it was an outrageous risk to take with my mental health.”

“Explain,” said Sherlock.

“Okay fine, you deduced that because you and Henry saw something impossible then the only possible explanation could be that you were drugged. I wasn’t immediately affected so you concluded that I was not exposed, therefore the only thing that you had consumed that I hadn’t was the sugar in the coffee at Henry’s house. Am I correct so far?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

“So you went and retrieved the sugar thinking it contained a hallucinogen that was slowly, but surely making Henry crazy. Instead of testing your hypothesis by using your connections to gain the use of a lab and testing the substance to find the chemical in question and identifying it, you contrived to administer a random dose to an unprepared subject, whose history, physiology and emotional state were so completely different from yours and Henry’s as to make any reaction to the drug completely unusable in any credible scientific study worth its salt. 

“Not only that, but you gave it to someone whom you know in recent history has suffered severe physical and psychological trauma, so as to make the administering of such a drug recklessly dangerous to that person’s already damaged psyche. As if that wasn’t enough, then you went to great lengths to torture the subject to the point of reacting to the chemical. 

“You could have gotten your results under a microscope without your ‘experiment’ at all. The whole thing was not only useless, but unnecessary and you didn’t stop -you never stop- to think about the consequences of your actions, and that’s something for you to work on Sherlock because as much as I do enjoy our partnership and the thrill of the chase, I also do not enjoy being used, manipulated and generally treated like I am little more than a means to an end to you and if things continue I’m afraid that this will have to come to an end before one of us ends up dead.” I got up and grabbed my coat and wallet heading for the door.

“So you’re just like the others you’re afraid that I’ll end up killing you,” Sherlock called.

“You didn’t listen to a word I just said,” I said without turning around, “No, to answer you’re question, I’m afraid that one day you’ll need my help, but you’ll have been such an utter bastard and I won’t come until its too late,” then I turned around, “I’m afraid that big brain of yours will write a check your fancy martial arts can’t cash, and I’m afraid that if I keep having to kill people for you Sherlock then one day I’ll become someone that you’ll need to kill yourself.” I left him and went to Tesco. While I was wandering up and down the aisles absently tossing food stuffs into my cart my phone buzzed with a text and then barely a minute later a second one.

I apologize for my rash behavior, and my shaky scientific methods - SH

Lestrade called with a case - will you come? - SH

On my way home - JW

On the way back, arms full of shopping bags, I was kidnapped. I felt someone behind me, and then I felt the sting of a needle and then there was nothing.


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John reconnects with an old...friend.

Chapter Seven  
I woke up face first in a puddle of my own drool cooling on a tiled floor. My hands were cuffed together thankfully in front of me, but less thankfully connected to a chain that was welded into the floor. There was a mattress pad on one side, and a toilet and metal basin on the other. There were no windows except for a small porthole in the steel reinforced door. I scooted over to the mattress and put my head in my hands trying desperately not to laugh. I knew exactly where I was.

I was in the secure wing of St. Martin’s hospital recently closed due to changes in the NHS budget and where in a previous life I had spent eighteen months learning how to walk on a pinned leg. I lay down discreetly pulling the lock pick out of the sleeve lining of my jacket which thankfully I was left with. I have other picks, but they’re a little more awkward to retrieve. I loosened the cuffs and waited.

A couple of hours later I had begun to doze sleeping off what remained of whatever drug I had been injected with when two thugs came in making lots of noise with the creaking metal of the door. Light spilled in behind the two blobs of men from the decayed sterile corridor. 

“He’s asleep,” said one, I named him Dumb.

“Is he still drugged?” asked the other now Dumber. 

“He moved from the floor so he woke up,” said Dumb.

“Wake up!” shouted Dumber and I faked a startled awakening, much to Dumber’s amusement. 

“Get him up,” said Dumb. Neither one seemed to think it odd I hadn’t spoken yet so I decided to play cowed silence. I held my end of the chain letting my jacket sleeves fall over my wrists to hide the fact that the handcuffs were hanging open. Dumb hauled me to my feet and I swayed before I fully balanced.  
A shadow crossed the doorway and it took me a full minute for my eyes to adjust and to see the man who stood before me. 

As someone who had spent many hundreds of years prowling the streets of London, it is not unusual to find myself in places I have been before and also to be confronted with someone I knew in another life.

When I knew him last Colonel Sebastian Moran was an up and coming drug dealer with designs on organized crime. I was a thug for hire, and barely smarter than Dumb and Dumber, and what modicum of intellect I had still didn’t keep me safe. 

Sebastian Moran my first boss, who stabbed me as collateral and left me choking on my own blood with barely a glance as he walked away. Sebastian Moran standing in the doorway of my cell twenty years later, several hundred years later. 

“So you’re Dr. John Watson,” said Moran a slow smirk on his face. “I thought you’d be taller.”

“So this is the Hilton, I thought there’s be girls,” I said.

“You’re very glib for a man who’s been kidnapped,” said Moran.

“Not my first time,” I said.

“No it’s not,” said Moran almost laughing, “but it might be your last.”

I huffed in amusement. “Unlikely,” I said smiling, “but please do continue with your evil plan.”

“I can see why they like you,” said Moran.

“They?” I asked surprised by the plural.

“The Holmes brothers they don’t often let anyone else in on their games.”

“And what are you another arch enemy slash cousin?” I asked.

Moran laughed, “No relation I’m afraid, except that you shot my employer and my friend.”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

“A man after my own heart,” said Moran, “Perhaps the name Moriatry will ring some bells for you.”

“If you’re looking for remorse you’re in the wrong place,” I said.

“I like you it’s a shame you joined the wrong side,” said Moran.

“I was on your side once,” I said, “it didn’t agree with me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Moran, “but it doesn’t really matter because I’m going to kill you.”

I laughed.

“Something funny?” he asked.

“Not really, it’s just that’s what I told Moriarty right before I shot him.”

“What did he say?” asked Moran.

“He just laughed and walked away, I don’t think he believed me until I pulled the trigger.”

“Do you believe me when I say I’m going to kill you?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“Not especially,” he said and pulled out a gun from the back of his jeans. He pointed the gun at my forehead barely an inch from my face. “Any last words?” he asked.

“Erik Weisz,” I said grinning.

“Who is that?” asked Dumb, I’d almost forgotten he was there, almost. I reached forward grabbed Moran’s hand and wrist twisted as I elbowed his face and shot Dumb and Dumber once in each of their legs and kicked them both in the head as they went down. I turned around to deal with Moran, but he was down with a bloody nose and Lestrade and Sherlock were stood in the open doorway.

“Late,” I said to Sherlock as I popped the clip out of the gun and handed it to Lestrade.

“Thanks,” said Greg clearly a little stunned. “We came as soon as we got a location from the CCTV.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Erik Weisz?” asked Sherlock as I stepped out into the corridor with them and let a few other police and EMT’s enter the room.

“Known better by his stage name,” I said.  
“Harry Houdini,” said Lestrade, “famous for escaping restraints like handcuffs.”  
“I didn’t know you were a magic fan, Greg,” I said walking down the corridor.  
“Loved it when I was a kid,” said Lestrade, “I had all the books, trick handcuffs, Paul Daniels box the whole nine.”  
“Really?” I asked grinning, “a mate of mine lent me a biography when I was laid up for a while, it had all the tricks in it and I was super bored.”  
“Excuse me,” said Sherlock, “can we discuss the three men you just incapacitated in there?”  
“The main guy was Sebastian Moran some kind of organized crime boss,” I said, “he was annoyed that I killed Moriarty.”  
“You killed Moriarty?” asked Lestrade suddenly serious.  
“National Security, Lestrade,” said Sherlock glaring at me.  
“No one told me it was a secret,” I said holding up my hands.  
“Ah,” said Sherlock, “I may have been supposed to explain that to you.”  
“It was self-defense,” I said seeing the look on Lestrade’s face. “Didn’t you wonder why I was in hospital with a gunshot wound a few months ago?”  
“You were shot?” asked Lestrade, “Sherlock said you’d gone on holiday.”  
“No wonder no one visited then,” I said with a sigh and walked out of the door into the cooler evening air. We were in a small patient garden adjacent to the parking lot. I spent a lot of time out here when I was learning how to walk again.  
“How did you know this was an exit?” asked Sherlock, “you haven’t even asked where you are.”  
“I know where I am,” I said and sat down on the concrete bench by the path. “I just needed to get outside for a minute.”  
“You alright mate?” asked Lestrade.  
“I’m exhausted to be honest with you, I don’t know what they gave me, but I’m still dragging a bit from it.” I looked up at Greg’s blurry face, and it divided into two. “That’s not good,” I said squeezing my eyes shut to clear the image before I passed out on the bench, but it was too late and I could feel myself going down and hear the echoes of Greg and Sherlock calling out to me from a very long way away.


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You should stop getting kidnapped and almost killed,”

Chapter Eight  
“You should stop getting kidnapped and almost killed,” the voice sounded in the distance and was very irritated. 

“Mycroft’s offered to have you GPS tagged and I’d take him up on it if it didn’t mean he’d always know where I am as well. Once is understandable, but this makes…more than I’ve even kept track of, and you probably got in all sorts of trouble in Afghanistan and wherever you were before we met, but seriously I’m beginning to think you’re a danger to yourself and if I keep letting you go on with me you might actually get yourself killed either in an attempt to save me or someone else or in the attempt to get the bad guy or by simply being the person that might break me if I lost you. 

“I honestly don’t know how that happened, it’s barely a year and…I talk to you when you’re not there. I want to know what you think, I want to explain things to you. I don’t know what that means. I said you were my friend, my only friend and that’s true, I don’t want anyone else. I think I did that stupid experiment in Dartmoor to prove that it was still about the work for me, and nothing else mattered to me and that includes you, but I proved the opposite because I did make a mistake, it wasn’t about the case it was about me and how I’ve changed since I met you.

“I used to think I didn’t need anyone, needing someone means you’re vulnerable means a weakness people can exploit, but having you around has been a strength one that I’ve grown accustom to even if it means you become both a shield and an Achilles heel. 

“I know that you’re afraid that your inherent violent nature might force you to become a monster that I might one day have to slay, but you seem to forget that the entire world is waiting for me to become a monster too. Even the people I’ve known for years look at me and see only the mask I use to face the world and yes it is the mask of a monster, but just because that’s the face I wear doesn’t mean that’s who I am underneath. You have your own monster and a much better mask, but that’s how you deal with it, you are the wolf in sheep’s clothing, and I am a man wearing a wolf mask trying desperately not to let anyone see what I really am. You see and you don’t care and you want to be around me anyway. I can’t see a way to fix this. Deduction is for seeing facts in evidence and drawing conclusions of current situations. It’s not for seeing the future. 

“I am truly sorry for Dartmoor, for taking advantage of our friendship. For the first time I didn’t think something through enough before acting. And yet am also glad of it, I am glad to know that despite my callous disregard for our friendship you felt enough for both of us to put it out in the open to spell out your grievance and not to simply pack and walk away as so many others have done in your place with good reason. I don’t want you to leave John, that’s all. Don’t leave me alone again just when I’ve gotten used to being with someone.”

I drifted in and out of consciousness for a while. I think Sherlock kept talking to me or rather at me and I got the impression of doctors, and nurses, and possibly Lestrade and Mycroft too.

“This man is decorated war veteran he woke up from a gunshot wound in less than 36 hours please tell me why he is still only semiconscious?” Sherlock was berating someone for something they had no control of; it was as good a cue as any.  
“Sssherrrlock,” I took a breath that was harder than I thought, and then I thought I should open my eyes because everything had gone quiet. Sherlock was leaning over my bed and a nurse was checking my vitals.  
“Mr. Watson,” said the nurse.  
“Doctor,” snapped Sherlock.  
“Dr. Watson,” the nurse corrected, “Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”  
“Hospital,” I said, pleased that I wasn’t slurring anymore.  
“That’s right, good,” she looked at Sherlock, “I’ll go get Dr. Simmons.” She left quickly.  
“What happened?” I asked.  
“What do you remember?” asked Sherlock.  
“Moran, St. Martin’s,” I said slightly hoarse. Sherlock brought a cup from my bedside and guided a straw to my mouth. “Thank you.”  
“You passed out,” said Sherlock, “the sedative they gave you was in fact a slow acting poison. Moran’s last laugh I suppose since you do have the knack for escaping he had a back-up plan.”  
“You found the antidote though,” I said.  
“Eventually,” he said, taking the cup away, “you’ve been in a coma for two days.”  
“Strong stuff,” I said.  
“Very,” said Sherlock.  
“Am I going to be okay?” I asked.  
“Apparently you have the heart of a 20 year old thanks to what I’d describe as an extreme amount of focus on eating heart healthy food and exercising.”  
“A healthy heart’s nothing to sneeze at Sherlock,” I said looking at him as he examined the thread count of my bedsheets. “The body may only be transport for the mind, but if you run your wheels into the ground you won’t get very far will you?” He smiled, but didn’t look up and we sat in silence for a few more seconds until the doctor came in.  
“Well Dr. Watson,” said Dr. Simmons, “we meet again.”


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Another two days in the hospital to make sure I wasn’t going to keel over and I was free once more. I gave my statement to Lestrade while still on bed rest. He left me a book on Harry Houdini which Sherlock promptly stole for research. I stepped out onto the street and breathed the fresh air. I was alone because Sherlock had been caught up in a case involving eyeballs and I wouldn’t tear him away from that. I told him I’d get a cab home, and to text me if he needed me. A black town car rolled up to the curb in front of me. The door opened and I climbed in beside Mycroft.

“We’ve really got to stop meeting like this,” I said settling into my seat. Mycroft gave me a thin smile.

“Sherlock wanted to tag you with a GPS chip,” said Mycroft.

“He said he vetoed that because it would be a way for you to track him as well,” I said.

“He said that when you were unconscious,” said Mycroft.

“He said that when I was semi-conscious. It’s a bit surreal actually I could hear him ranting at me from the end of a very long corridor.”

“Fascinating,” said Mycroft.

“You’re not taking us to the club are you?” I asked stretching out a bit, “I just want to go home have a cup of tea and sleep for another week.”

“We’re headed to Baker St., but in light of events I have come to the conclusion that you are like my brother and I would like to know what your wishes are,” said Mycroft.

“Sorry you’re going to have to translate that for me,” I said not really opening my eyes to look at him.

“Your penchant for entering into dangerous situations leads me to conclude that you are not long for the world,” said Mycroft. “I want to know what your wishes are in the event of your death.”

“I have a will as you well know,” I said glancing at him, “I don’t own anything of value really and everything Sherlock doesn’t want goes to my sister if she wants anything. A standard non-denominational burial and a cryptic Latin riddle on my grave stone.”

“Have you considered what you will do with your next life?” asked Mycroft.

“James offered me a position with the intelligence service, I’m going to meet him after I finish my first tour and see what’s what. I could be a spy for a bit,” I shrugged, “it might be fun.”

“I have no doubt you could be an exceptional agent,” said Mycroft.

“Thank you,” I said with only a little sarcasm. “Is that all?”

“What about Sherlock?”

“What about him?”

“Will you continue your association with him?”

“I would have thought you’d have plans for him yourself,” I said, “probably want to ship him off to some strict military school to finally bring him into line.” I joked. I noticed the slight grimace on Mycroft’s face, “Oh god you tried that didn’t you? You sent Sherlock to military school! What happened did he set fire to the chemistry lab, or just runaway every chance he got?”

“That’s not important,” said Mycroft stiffly. I chuckled and shook my head.

“What is it you want from me?” I asked.

“I want you to continue your relationship with my brother, he’s…better with you around.”

“He’s actually admitted to us being friends,” I said, “I would have thought you’d disapprove.”

“Sherlock apparently requires companionship in a way I hadn’t before considered necessary,” said Mycroft.

“It scares me a little that you say it like that,” I said.

“I am unapologetic for my nature, Dr. Watson, but I have come to realize albeit very slowly that my nature is not Sherlock’s. He has my intellect, but…”

“But he needs people as people and not pawns,” I said.

“Quite,” said Mycroft, “Before you Lestrade was the closest he’s ever come to a friend.”

“That’s extremely depressing,” I said, “you should get to the point before I jump out into traffic, or haul off and smack you one for being such a prat.”

“Very well, I wanted to know if you’d consider entering Sherlock’s life earlier than you did this time,” said Mycroft, “I could get you placed at his grammar school.”

“I don’t know,” I said, “I’ve found that trying to recreate a relationship in the next life with someone other than one of us is problematic at best, one life to the next we’re not really the same people the accumulation of memory and experience changes us in ways that we don’t necessarily perceive, and the getting to know you phase can go in a completely different direction because you already know them. Like trying to laugh at a joke when you already know the punchline. You can’t fake that and Sherlock will know.”

“Don’t you want to continue your partnership?” asked Mycroft.

“Some events cannot be replicated at least not on purpose,” I said, “what Sherlock and I have is the combination of two people who needed something from each other at a specific point in their lives. I’m not sure it would turn out the same way if we meet under different circumstances, especially since the novelty has already worn off for me. I think part of what made Sherlock try so hard at the beginning is because I was in such obvious awe of what he could do.”

“Perhaps a more equal partnership is in order, and he can be in awe of you and your superior knowledge base at such a young age.”

“It will be a different relationship,” I said, “but I don’t see any harm in trying. I’ll still be joining the army it’s something I’ve realized I need in my lives and I expect you to give Sherlock the choice and the space to actually find his own path. That’s my only condition once I’m in the school you let him make the choice.”

“Agreed,” said Mycroft. The car pulled to a stop outside 221 and I got out with my overnight bag.

 


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

“Moriarty is alive,” said Sherlock. I was stood in the hallway hanging up my coat, and he was sat on the couch watching TV.

“That’s impossible,” I said, “I shot him.”

“Your shot was high on his chest,” said Sherlock, “survivable if proper medical is given in time.”

“But it wasn’t,” I said walking into the living room, “you checked his body when you grabbed the cell phone.”

“He had a pulse,” said Sherlock, “but I was focused on getting help for you.”

“Mycroft told me he was dead,” I said sinking down into the chair. I finally noticed what was on the television, Sherlock was watching it on mute. The caption read “James Moriarty arrested in the Tower of London, for stealing the crown jewels.”

“It’s not a copycat,” said Sherlock, “he just texted, he wants me over at the tower now. Lestrade phoned just after I received the message.

It was a snowball. A snowball rolling down a mountain in a blizzard. We found out Mycroft had taken Moriarty into custody fixed him up and ‘interrogated’ him for months until he managed to escape or was freed by one of Mycroft’s less faithful minions. I’m not a mnemonic I don’t remember every single moment of all my lives, a fact I’m thankful for, but I do remember that day at St. Bart’s standing on the street watching Sherlock ‘save me’ by leaving me.

After the funeral I wanted to die, I remembered my conversation with Mycroft and sent him a text to remind him.

Grammar School - JW

He sent men who threw me into a van, and I was put on suicide watch for two weeks. I finally got the message that Mycroft didn’t want this life to be over yet. That meant one of two things; Sherlock was alive or Mycroft wanted to use me to avenge Sherlock’s death. Mycroft didn’t contact me again, I was still pissed that he’d let the situation come to his brother’s death. The one lineal he had any connection to and he used him as a pawn in a political game. Occasionally, I saw a black sedan parked where it shouldn’t be parked but I let it go. I let it all go. I told Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson I needed to get away, out of London and away from the memory of Sherlock. It was the truth, but not all of it.

As someone who knows more or less what the future will bring, in terms of history, and politics I often find myself, like other ouroborans faced with the choice of whether to take part in history, or to step out of its way. Generally speaking the events in question are so large as to preclude the impact of a single person on them. I went to war, and I saved a few lives, but I have no illusions that my actions had any meaningful effect on the future. It is possible of course to do serious damage with the foreknowledge we have, but that sort of thing is frowned upon, and the punishments for taking it too far are medieval to say the least. I had never heard of Sherlock in my prior lives, and even though he’d attained something of a celebrity up to this point, I knew from experience that the media fire would flicker and burn out very quickly, especially since I knew about several other ‘big’ news events that were to come. So I had the choice, I could run away and stick my head in the sand for a few years, before being tracked down by Mycroft, Sherlock or my own utter boredom and coming back to London and whatever was left of this life. Or I could jump into history with both feet and ride the danger and excitement right through my grief and anger and into yet another life within this one.

*****************

I called James.

“Watson!” he laughed when he heard my voice.

“Have you heard about Sherlock?”

“Yeah,” he said, “let’s meet at the club for a drink. I think you need it.”

I sipped a drink in the back room of the London Chronos club and thought about what James had just told me about a private flight to Poland shortly after the funeral and about a few key events he was getting ready to take part in. He was sitting next to me reading the paper, waiting for my answer I suppose. I put my drink down at turned to him.

“Mycroft cannot know,” I said, “he seems to want me to sit around stewing in my own juices for however long it takes for Sherlock to get back. But that is definitely not who I am. I need an entirely new identity.”

James smiled he pulled out a notepad and scrawled a time and address before handing me the slip of paper.

“This kid,” he said, “is brilliant. I mean 100% untainted genius with computers.”

“Why isn’t he working at MI6?” I asked.

“He will in about a year he’ll get recruited and rise the ranks to Quartermaster very quickly,” said James with a bit of a wince.

“Okay,” I said frowning, “so what I just go here and say can you make me a new identity?”

“Pretty much,” said James with a shrug. “Only people in the know can find him and if you’re there you’ve had a referral from a reliable source.”

“Are you sure I can trust him?” I asked.

“John, I will trust him with my life now and in every life to come.” I looked down at the slip of paper.

“Good enough for me.”

*******

The cafe was seeing the last of the lunch rush and I spotted my contact easily enough.

“Look for the twelve year old Sherlock in glasses,” James had said almost laughing into his drink.

I found the young man hidden behind a laptop and sipping cup of earl grey.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“I’m not interested,” he said not taking his eyes off the screen and continuing to type one handed while drinking.

“In what?” I asked baffled. He did look up then and blinked.

“Sorry,” he said closing the laptop lid and giving me his full attention. “Some guy keeps coming in here to offer me a job.”

“What job?” I asked and sat down.

“Intelligence,” he sneered.

“From what I hear you’ve already got plenty,” I said. The boy smirked.

“Someone’s been telling tales on me,” he said.

“I asked for a recommendation and got here and now,” I said.

“So what does the detective’s sidekick want from me?” he asked. I wanted to take issue with sidekick, but the fact that recognized me made it so much easier.

“I want a new ID, high-end enough to pass government screenings,” I said, “I know a couple of people who do documents, but it’s all about the electronic fingerprints these days.”

“Are you running away Dr. Watson?” he asked.

“I’m changing course,” I said, “I can’t stay here, not after everything that’s happened. I’m not the grieving widow type.”

“Why the new ID? Why not just leave?”

“I’ll be prevented by the well meaning guilt of an overbearing Big Brother,” I said.

“I get the impression that’s not just a 1984 reference,” said the boy. I smiled.

“You have no idea.”

“Okay,” he said, “New ID high end, do you want to burn your old ID? Are you looking to disappear altogether or spoof Big Brother with a false trail?”

“I didn’t think of that,” I said, “I don’t want to burn John Watson, I just need him to go on vacation somewhere remote with just enough credit card activity to be convincing.”

“I can do that,” said the boy, “who do you want to be instead?”

“Can you give me something with similar skills and experience, but a totally different origin and background?” I asked.

“No problem,” he said, “give me a week and five grand cash or wire transfer.”

“Cash,” I said already planning to stop by the bookies and catch the last few races at Newmarket.

 


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

When I was younger I had an affair with a woman who was almost older than me, but she wasn’t an ouroboran. I was living in London and teaching chemistry and biology while I studied for my doctorate. I aimed to have it before I was 30. Her people tracked me for weeks, but it was Helen who finally approached me as a visiting professor. Helen Magnus thought I was some kind of abnormal with a mental ability, though that didn’t come out until later. I asked her out after chatting with her at a faculty lunch, and she laughed at my forwardness, told me she was probably too old for me. I was 27, I was 214, I was absolutely smitten.

I took her to the track to show off and win enough to buy dinner. I picked two winners and two places.

“John you have amazing luck,” she said grinning.

“Perhaps you’re just my lucky charm,” I said smiling too.

“That was terrible,” she said hitting my arm, but still smiling.

“I’ve got worse,” I said taking her arm in mine.

We went to a small restaurant and sat at the back where I could still see the crowds.

“Your threat assessment is excellent,” she said.

“Your security and recon teams need a few lessons in blending in,” I said taking a sip of the wine.

“I’ll let them know,” she said smiling. “Don’t you want to know why I have security?”

“I’m not supposed to know they’re there,” I said, “but if you want to fill me in on who you really are I’d be delighted.”

“I run a facility for special individuals who are not in line with the generally considered normal evolution,” she said. “I believe that you are one of those such individuals.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Your extraordinary intelligence and luck for picking winners are outside the normal range for humans,” she said.

“Are you going to try and put me in a cage for study?” I asked suddenly sad for what I had hoped to be an interesting friendship and perhaps more.

“Not unless you use your abilities to harm others,” she said carefully.

“I don’t have any abilities,” I said, “I just have a really good memory.”

“What about the races?” she asked.

“I lived at that racetrack when I was younger, I took note of some of the more lucrative winners,” I said.

“How do you remember the winners of races that haven’t run yet?” she asked.

“The same way I know there’ll be a car bomb explosion in Omagh in a couple of weeks, that DVD’s will be the next great technological breakthrough until blue-ray and downloads, and that you should stay out of New York in September of 2001.” I put some money down to pay for the drinks, and stood up, “I have lived this life before and I will do again.”

 

She called me a few weeks after 9/11 and asked to meet me, she wanted to know how I knew what was going to happen. I met her at a cafe in Paris, and we watched the sunset together while I explained the concept of kalachakra to her.

“Do things always happen the same way?” she asked.

“Not exactly there are many of us, so some things change as a result of our actions, but generally speaking we try to stay out of history’s way,” I said.

“That’s why you couldn’t stop the attack,” said Helen.

“Exactly, that event will shape the world for generations to come, and changing things in drastic ways can have unexpected consequences for the future generations.”

“If you relive this life over again why would you be concerned about the future generation?”

“Future generations of kalachakra,” I said, “we are a community of overlapping circles and we take care of our own when we are at our weakest.”

“Of course, during childhood,” she said.

“That’s right, and because we are always here and now we are in the unique position of being able to influence the past from the future,” I said, “not in this lifetime of course, but in the next I could go to my old friend who dies of lung cancer in the next year or two and he will take a message back to his childhood and tell another who will die soon who can take the message further back, until it reaches into the distant past after several generations of course.”

“And how do you know that your message has been received?”

“Messages from the past are left in stone, and hidden so that only one of our kind can find it,” I smiled, “sometimes we play games back and forth.”

“Games?” asked Helen.

“Hide and seek, puzzles and buried treasure,” I said, “I once followed a set of clues for two years and found only a lemonade recipe and pitcher with glasses!”

“That must have been disappointing,” she said.

“Not at all it was great fun, I buried a new tablet in their place with a puzzle that would lead the next person to each glass individually and I buried the pitcher under a lemon tree for good measure.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Why not?” I shrugged, “when you’re going to live the same days over again your main concern is the search for something to do that’s different. A distraction from forever.”

“But you could use your knowledge to do so much good,” she said, “you’re wasting this gift on games!”

“It’s not a gift, or a curse, it’s just who I am, and I can live my life such as it is however I chose,” I said.

“Of course you can, but why waste the time?”

“Because time is one thing that will never end,” I said.

“I’m 150 years old,” she said.

“You look good on it,” I said, “I’m 30, and 217.”

“You’re looking a bit worn,” she said and smiled.

“Do you want me to tell you?” I asked.

“Tell me what?” she asked.

“In the next life you won’t remember this it’ll be fresh for you and won’t have happened. The last 30 years will reset. In the last 23 years, because I don’t get my memories until I’m 7, is there something you’d want me to tell you? Would you believe me if I showed up on your doorstep and gave you a message from yourself in the future? Would you risk your entire life changing from that point on? It might change nothing, it might be catastrophic down the line.”

“Time travel that’s the issue isn’t it?” she said, “You can essentially travel through time, and do during the course of your normal life span. Why not prevent all up coming tragedies? Because history would change as a result, in unpredictable ways.”

“Butterflies, and why you can’t shoot Bin Ladin in the face, not yet at least,” I said.

“Who?” asked Helen.

“You’ll find out,” I said.

“I suppose I’ll have to trust you on that,” said Helen, “I don’t want to risk changing the timeline up to this point my organization is doing good work and despite the hardships I think we’ve set a good thing in motion. I’ve got my eye on a promising protege, but he’s not ready to hear the truth yet. I might take you up on that offer if the worst happens and you can prevent it when your life restarts again, but I won’t know until it happens.”

“Save my number,” I said, “call me if you need me, even if you just want to talk.”

“Thank you John,” she said and left. Several years later she called me devastated she wanted me to send a message to her daughter in early 2009, a message that would save her life. I sent the message in my next life, but I don’t know if she heeded the warning, I didn’t see Helen in that life. I think about her sometimes about our respective fates, she has the gift of youth and longevity she can see the world revolving and evolving through several generations, but she’s alone and any connections she makes are fleeting and not substantial. I can live a full life grow old and die with someone, but because I have lived so many lives my experience separates me from the world I live in. My kind cannot truly connect with the world we inhabit after a few lives because for us it’s running on a treadmill you expend your effort getting nowhere fast and when you finally stop running you’re carried right back to the start. 


	13. Chapter 12

A week after my meeting with the boy genius I had documents for Jonathan “Jack” Wilson and a train ticket for John Watson to Paris. I explained to Mrs. Hudson that I needed to get away for a while and took the train to Paris. I changed in the station, dyed my hair dark brown and took the train back to London as Jack Wilson en-route to London from Iraq for a long overdue leave/suspension. James met me outside Piccadilly and told me I’d be approached at my new ‘local’ pub and offered the chance to serve again. My back story as Jack Wilson was a bored highly skilled solider, orphaned and alone, with a reputation for trouble. Let’s just say I didn’t really need to stretch myself to play the part.

“Lt. Wilson?” I threw back the rest of my drink and looked at the man who’d approached me. Mid-to-late forties, balding and stiff. His suit stuck out like a sore thumb in the seedy pub, but he was so nondescript otherwise I doubted any of the other patrons would be able to describe him once he left.

“Not for long,” I said and called for another drink.

“Why is that?”

“I don’t play well with others,” I snorted into my own glass and grinned at Nondescript.

“I have an opportunity for you,” he said and slid his card across the bar, “the army might not want you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t continue to serve.”

Needless to say, I was a natural recruit. Within four months I was up for double o qualifications, and passed with barely a twinge of regret. I became 005, to replace another agent who had been invalided to a management position. James, myself and 006 became known as the three amigos or worse the three musketeers. Not to our faces of course, scary 00-assassins didn’t have cute nicknames and wouldn’t stand for it if they found out they had them. I bounced around Europe and the middle-east, then went further afield out to India, China, and Taiwan.

About a year after I qualified I started hearing rumors, of a lone operative pulling out pieces of a recently defunct criminal syndicate and incidentally solving other crimes as he went. I asked James to check into it while I did a job in Madrid, he was being dead at the time, so I didn’t feel too badly about it. James snapped a blurry picture outside a press conference in New Delhi, it was enough for me. I started putting out more feelers and got more evidence that showed he was moving back towards England. Jack Wilson, 005 ‘died’ and I had the newly crowned R keep me that way and give me a way to take over John Watson’s life again.

 

*******

Greg came by about a week after I’d moved into my new flat, brought some of Sherlock’s stuff from the yard. It was good to see him, awkward, but good. The movie nearly did me in, Sherlock being so…Sherlock.

I didn’t know for sure when Sherlock would show up, and I figured that I might as well look like I was living a life in the meantime. I bought a stake in a local clinic, my hazard pay, carefully filtered by R, took care of things, and not long after who should walk through the door? None other than Mary, Mary Morstan now not Watson this time. I didn’t set out to rekindle the relationship I’d had with her in my prior life, but after a month working together she asked me out and while we were both different people, in different parts of different lives, I decided to take the risk and said yes.

I found this version of Mary just as captivating as the earlier one I’d known. She was harder, more secretive. I think when we met at the rehab center and she taught me how to find my peace, she was finding hers as well. I fell in love with her all over again, but I realize now she was just biding her time, I started out doing the same, but I suppose I was trying to recapture what I had with her in that other life and let myself feel what I had felt then and it influenced what happened between us. That’s a trap many kalachakra fall into and I was no different. I think she loved me in her way, but it was as if she too were waiting for Sherlock to return and of course return he did on the night of my proposal.

I punched him, a lot. I don’t think I’d really taken stock of how truly angry I was with him over the whole ordeal. I thought killing people all over the world had sated my violent streak, but apparently the sight of a smug and unapologetic Sherlock got my blood up too fast for me to stop it. Mary understood Sherlock didn’t, and all three of us knew that I would forgive him eventually. Just as soon as I could stop punching him in the face.


	14. Chapter 13

As an ouroboran you can really rack up on deaths, some only ever die naturally some never do. I’ve died many different ways; I’ve been stabbed, shot, poisoned, exploded, hung, starved, drowned, beaten, and very occasionally I die ‘naturally’ of heart disease, but I’ve never burned to death. I’ve been burned, and I don’t ever want to have the memory of dying that way. 

I blame my poor performance in the abduction on Sherlock, and Mary both. They had in their own ways dumped a bunch of crap in my head that I was endeavoring to sort out as I walked up Baker St. I know I got a few punches in, but I should have seen that ambush coming a mile away. I was distracted, and clearly several months as a GP had softened my paranoia and killer instincts enough for them to get the drop on me.

Lying in the bonfire, trying to shake off the drug and inexplicable concussion, I did have that moment of doubt. The fleeting thought that I wouldn’t be able to get out, that no one would realize I was missing or even notice I was gone until I was a charred husk in the middle of the embers. I remember thinking bloody typical Sherlock’s only been back a day and I’m already in more danger than I ever was roaming the world as a secret agent.

Then not 24 hours later I was once again in danger of being a splatter pattern in the rubble of the Houses of Parliament. 

*****

I watched Sherlock usher his parents out, not really the people I had imagined could spawn Sherlock and Mycroft, but like most things I was sure they could not be what they appeared to be. People change and grow through their lives, learning and evolving their views of the world, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were the quintessential doddering old couple now, but when they were younger? Who knows? There’s also Mycroft to factor in as a kalachakra he would be the one to shape Sherlock’s life more fully simply by knowing the events that would happen in his life and changing them. Sometimes I think about that and I want to smack Mycroft, but I know better, he’s not a super villain, he’s just a brother.

“How are you feeling?” asked Sherlock in an uncharacteristic show of concern. In truth I was feeling stupid for getting jumped, annoyed because Sherlock had had to save me again, and generally pissed off that I’d been used against him again.   
“Yeah, not bad. Bit…smoked.” Sherlock quirked a smile, and took the joke for what it was a desire to move on from the trauma.  
“Right,” he said.

Sherlock started explaining the underground terrorism case and before I could really catch my breath we were heading to the nearest tube station to find the dead station.

“This car is the bomb,” said Sherlock pulling up the cushions.   
“Can you turn it off?” I asked watching as he uncovered the main hub, complete with timer.  
“No, why would you think I could?” he asked.  
“Because you’re Sherlock bloody Holmes!” I cried.  
“You were in the army, you turn it off!” he said.  
“I’m a doctor!” I said.  
“And a soldier as you’re always reminding us,” Sherlock sneered.  
“I wasn’t in bomb disposal! The closest I ever got to an IED was picking bits of them out of people!” In the army at least that was the case. As an agent I’ve been walked through several bomb diffuses, but I hadn’t ever seen a set up like the one in the train.”Can’t we pull the timer off?” I asked trying to force his hand.  
“That will set it off!”   
“See you know stuff!” I said, “Use your mind palace and find the answer in some esoteric reference book you glanced at six years ago.” Sherlock disappeared into his mind palace and I called R MI6 is never out of range. “I’m in a train under Parliament and it’s about to explode.”  
“Can you send me pictures of the device?” he asked not even trying for pleasantries it’s what I like about him really.  
“On their way one is the main unit the other is a secondary unit the whole train is wired.”  
“Okay got it, alright I see the receiver, I can jam the signal but if you look down the side there’s a switch to turn off the whole thing, probably a failsafe.”  
“A switch?” I asked.  
“It’s not really a complicated device lots of flash with the liquid cooling but all completely for show, probably a pro dealing with amateurs.”  
“Big sizzle little steak?” I asked.  
“Yes, exactly, but still enough to level the building above with the aid of the smaller explosives remotely controlled in the tunnel itself. But if it’s any consolation they were probably over charged.”  
“That makes me feel so much better,” I said, “I have to deal with Sherlock he’s going to come out of his mind palace any second now.”  
“Sherlock? He’s there too?”  
“Of course he is, in what universe outside MI6 am I standing in a bomb and it’s not down to Sherlock bloody Holmes?”  
“Point,” said R, “anyway the signal’s jammed I’ve got people from 5 headed to the location of the activation code, so it’s done, do you want me to set the timer going so Sherlock can save the day?” I could hear the smile in his voice when he said.  
“It wouldn’t do if Sherlock didn’t save the day,” I said sardonically.  
“Done,” he said, ”call me later.” The line went dead and the timer on the bomb started counting down.  
“Time to save the day Sherlock,” I said and he blinked at me. 

***********

We faced the press side-by-side once more, and Sherlock was back. But it wasn’t quite the same as it was.  
“You’re still angry with me,” said Sherlock when we made it back to the flat, exhausted but unharmed.  
“I’m angry about what you did,” I said, “not at you, not anymore.” I made my way into the kitchen and started making tea.  
“We haven’t talked about it,” he said.  
“About what?” I asked.  
“What happened after I…left?”  
“About what?” I said again, “What happened to you? Or what happened to me?” Sherlock frowned confused by the thought. “Of course you wouldn’t be talking about me. Mycroft probably gave you the surveillance report, and you deduced the rest.” Sherlock looked away, and I rolled my eyes. “Or you didn’t even ask because you assumed I’d be sitting right here covered in two years of cobwebs like Miss. Havisham waiting for you.” I shook my head and went back to the tea.  
“I didn’t want to think about what you did while I was gone,” said Sherlock.  
“Why not?”  
“Because I didn’t want to think about the two mutually exclusive possibilities,” he said.  
“Which were?”  
“That you were sitting here wasting away without me, or,” Sherlock sighed.  
“Or what?” I asked. Sherlock looked away.  
“Or that you’d moved on with your life and forgot me,” he said.  
“I could never forget you Sherlock,” I said, “even if I live a thousand years I won’t ever meet someone like you again.” I poured the boiling water into the teapot and covered it with the cozy. “I didn’t have a life,” I said, “before we met, the life I had planned on was over. I was ready to end it, I was just working out the details.”  
“Details?” asked Sherlock frowning.  
“When, where and how,” I said, “I didn’t want to do it at the bedsit, and become an example for them. I had my gun, but it’s a bit messy and not a 100% sure, not with my hand tremor the way it was. Slit wrists takes too long really, and drugs are also a bit hit and miss. I had actually been leaning towards the femoral artery, and I followed Mike to Bart’s half thinking I would be able to pilfer a nice sharp scalpel. You were the first thing to catch my interest since I’d left Afghanistan. I thought we were helping each other finding the balance between boredom and insanity.”  
“We were,” said Sherlock.  
“They why did you leave?” I asked, “You know I would have dropped everything to come with you. I dropped everything anyway, what else did I have but you?”  
“You found Mary,” said Sherlock, “you’ve made a new life.”  
“You have no idea, do you?” I shook my head in wonder. I turned back to the kitchen and shook my head again.  
“John,” Sherlock called.  
“No, forget it,” I said, “two years hasn’t changed you a bit, but guess what? It changed me and despite you and me together I did manage to find a life of my own while you were gone.” I sighed, “Maybe I am still a bit angry, but I am glad that you’re alive.” I smiled tiredly at him and left to go home to Mary.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen  
MI6 exploded. I dimly remember hearing about the explosion a few lives earlier, but for the most part I’ve been out of the country for the events that I was now dead center for. Sherlock’s return quickly became yesterday’s news in the wake of the suspected terrorist attack. I met R in a cafe outside Westminster Abbey.  
“I thought it was appropriate,” he said smiling as I sat down. He looked tired, and bruised.  
“I’d have thought you’d be up to your eyeballs in the rebuilding,” I said.  
“I have an hour before I’m helping with the relocation down the bunkers,” he said, “I have to set up my department from scratch.”  
“Your department?” I asked.  
“I’m Q now,” he said.  
“Congratulations,” I said.  
“Dead man’s shoes is not how I wanted to get this job,” he said.  
“This is who you’re meant to be,” I said, “I knew that the moment I met you.”  
“Doesn’t feel real,” he said.  
“It will, just give it time.”   
“Are you going to come in?” he asked, “007 activated his auxiliary account yesterday.”  
“Yes, well James is always the one to run to the rescue,” I said, “but I don’t know, Sherlock just came back in town and I’m engaged.”  
“Yes, about Mary…” Q started but I stopped him.  
“She’s out of town right now visiting a sick friend, and yes I know she’s an agent, but she doesn’t know I’m one. I’m trying to figure out if she’s really looking for a fresh life or if she’s a plant to see if Sherlock is still alive,” I said.  
“If you need help ID’ing her or anything let me know. And if you want to come in and help find the person that blew up the office, and nearly leveled Parliament.” He shrugged. I scowled,   
“You know I hate when you pull the puppy dog face,” I said.  
“I did no such thing,” he said in an affronted tone, but his eyes were smiling.

**********

James showed up on my doorstep the next day.  
“I’ve seen M,” he said slumped in the chair by my fireplace and staring despondently into the flames.  
“What does she say?” I asked. I poured us both drinks of whiskey and handed one over to him.  
“That I have to re-qualify,” he said taking the glass. “Bitch.”   
“Did you tell her about me?” I asked.  
“No,” he said, “I saw the papers from the last few days. I know Holmes’ brother came back from the dead.”  
“Yeah,” I said sitting down opposite. “I still don’t know how he faked it.”  
“You knew he had though,” said James.  
“I did, and I’m still pissed off that he did that.”  
“I did it,” said James, “you did it.”  
“That’s different,” I said, “I didn’t have any ties to anyone at 6 and you’ve done it so many times no one actually believes you’re dead unless they get a corpse.” I sighed, “He made me watch, made it believable.”  
“But you still suspected,” said James.  
“Because Mycroft wouldn’t let me commit suicide,” I said, “it meant either Sherlock was alive or he wanted me around to help figure out how to prevent it in the future. Considering Mycroft’s reach I tended to the former.”  
“But he’s back now, don’t you want to get back to doing all the detective stuff?” asked James.  
“Yes, he’s back and we foiled a plot to blow up parliament and I almost got burned alive in a bonfire,” I said with a sigh.  
“Jesus, and I thought I had a busy week,” said James.  
“It’s not the same though,” I said, “Sherlock’s not the same as he was, and frankly neither am I. He’s trying to be supportive about Mary and I can tell it’s killing him.”  
“Mary?”  
“Fiancee,” I grimaced.  
“Changed you mind?” he asked.  
“Prior relationship,” I said.  
“Time filler,” said James nodding. I knew he’d get it without judging.  
“We met earlier last time, and while I still enjoy her company…”I trailed off.  
“Your old feelings are pretty much all that’s keeping the relationship a float, because neither of you are the same people,” said James.  
“Pretty much,” I said.  
“Been there,” said James, holding his glass out for another belt. I topped us both up and sat back.  
“I think she’s one of us,” I said, “not kalachakra, but an agent of some kind. She has a bunch of little tells, but otherwise her cover is flawless.”  
“Is she a threat?” asked James, and I heard the unspoken, ‘do you want me to kill her?’ in his tone.  
“No,” I said, “I don’t know what her game is whether she’s under for something, or if she’s genuinely trying to create a new life for herself. I’m coming to the conclusion that I’d rather deal with Sherlock’s crazy over hers.”  
“If you dump her now, they’ll both think it’s for him,” said James.  
“There in lies the difficulty,” I said. “I can’t abandon this new life I’ve constructed, I won’t let Sherlock have that much control over me again.”  
“You’re afraid to recommit to him because he’s already let you down,” said James smiling into his drink.  
“You spend far too little time in psych to be qualified to shrink me,” I said. “Okay, enough analyzing for the night, you can take the sofa-bed, and in the morning I’ll give you a physical so that you’re fit enough to do those tests for M.”  
“What makes you think that’s what I’m here for?” asked James.  
“Well, it’s not the cheap whiskey or the lumpy sofa-bed,” I said, “you made me executor of your Will because you knew I’d leave everything as is until you got back. You have a flat you can go sleep in if you’re just looking for a place to crash. You took a bad hit on that bridge, and I know you didn’t do what I told you to do after I left.”  
“You’re only half-right,” said James, “though I thought I had seen to your taste in whiskey.” He drained the drink with a mild grimace. “I do need you to pull some shrapnel out that came to the surface after you left, but I also wanted to see you. I wanted to see where you were at and how things were going.”  
“You want me to resurrect Jack Wilson and come with you to take care of this hacker,” I said.  
“M will die if you don’t,” said James.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

“You’re trying too hard.”  
“What?” I gritted my teeth as I pushed up on the bars and finally, finally after weeks of being bed-ridden and wheelchair bound stood up on my feet. And promptly collapsed back into the chair, the attractive young assistant had been following me with. I was breathing hard and sweating from even that small movement.  
“You’re trying too hard,” she said again.  
“I thought trying was the point of physical therapy,” I said still taking gasps. She came around and crouched down in front of me.  
“Trying, and effort are good, but that just now was incredibly stupid.” I could feel my face going hot, I didn’t like being called stupid.  
“I’m not stupid!” I yelled, “My legs work just fine, I didn’t ask to be strapped in bed for six weeks, I also didn’t ask to be shot neither, you’ve no right to say that to me! Who the fuck are you that you can dictate that to me! Mike!” I turned to the orderly assigned to me, “Mike take me back, to my room, I’m not dealing with fucking shit today!” Mike sighed and pulled the wheelchair back out of the bars and into the corridor. “Who the fuck was she to call me stupid? Bitch doesn’t know me, doesn’t give a shit about me. Call me stupid, she’s stupid.” I muttered all the way back to my room and through being helped back into bed. I fell asleep still angry and exhausted beyond reason.   
When I woke up, the assistant was there standing looking out the window into the courtyard. “The fuck do you want?” I groaned.  
“Still a ray of sunshine I see,” she said.  
“Get out!” I snarled, but it was a toothless gesture my leg had seized up while I slept, and I could tell that any movement would be agony. I wanted her to leave me be so I could bring myself to tears of pain without an audience.  
“You’re angry,” she said quietly. I glared at her.  
“No shit!”  
“No, not just because of the injury, or feeling helpless or in pain,” she took a few steps closer on the bed. “You’re angry all the time. Things that don’t matter set you off on a rant, you’re more likely to punch something than talk to it, you’re always angry it’s always there the violence the desire to hurt someone, to destroy something it’s always in you hovering just below the surface ready to explode.”  
“Who are you?” I asked through gritted teeth, my leg was starting to tingle and throb, but I wanted to know who this little girl was that knew about the rage, about the violence that I couldn’t control. I looked at her and knew she understood what she was talking about.  
“I’m Mary,” she said, “Mary Watson.”

************

Several lifetimes later, John Watson was invited to go to a medical conference for a couple weeks in Birmingham, Alabama.   
“Why has this come up all of a sudden?” asked Mary, watching as I packed a carry-on bag.   
“I was invited,” I said.  
“So? You get invited to tons of these things all the time, why are you going now?” she asked.  
“I need to go,” I said.  
“But why? Does this have to do with Sherlock? Are you going on a secret case or something?”  
“No,” I said, “Sherlock as far as I can tell is still settling in to Baker st. and fending off the press.”  
“There are still a few paps hanging around down the street from here,” said Mary, proving her surveillance skills hadn’t atrophied.  
“That’s part of the reason I’m taking off,” I said.  
“You’re running away?” she asked in disbelief.  
“No,” I said, “I’m taking a breath, I haven’t had this kind of life in two and half years. Sherlock’s only been back a week, I’ve already been kidnapped, nearly burned alive, and blown up. Even for us that’s a lot to process. I just want to spend some time sitting in a gaudy ballroom surround by 200 other mediocre medical professionals being bored to tears.”  
“Do you want me to come?” asked Mary.  
“I love you too much to inflict Alabama on you,” I said, “besides I need you to hold down the fort at the clinic, and make sure Sherlock doesn’t get in too much trouble.”  
“I’ll do my best,” she said smiling just a bit too hard.

*********

Jack Wilson joined James Bond as they rode down to the bunkers, and new head quarters of MI6. 

“Where did you come from?” asked M sharply.  
“Rumors, death, exaggerated, etc…” I said with a shrug.  
“Christ, lose 6 officers and resurrect 2 double-0’s,” she said.  
“John?” I turned my attention to the other person in the room.  
“Gareth?” I said shocked, “What are you doing here?”  
“I could say the same about you! I thought you’d gotten out,” said Gareth Mallory.  
“So you two know each other?” asked James.  
“Watson here was involved with my extraction from Ireland,” said Mallory and I winced.  
“Watson?” asked M.  
“Yeah, about that,” I said.

I explained everything, about who I was and Sherlock and R now Q and the reason for the fake ID. By the end James looked like he was about to burst out laughing, M was looking at me appraisingly like she’d never actually seen me before. I may have been a fast-tracked double 0 but for the most part I’m largely forgettable it’s why I’m so successful as an agent. In any field I try I’m actually more talented knowledgeable and advanced than my colleagues it’s just that no one seems to notice that until it comes down to the wire. Gareth just looked a bit shocked, I imagine he didn’t expect to be confronted with an aspect of his past he’d tried to forget.   
“Well 005 you’re a lot more skilled at subterfuge than your initial evaluations gave you credit for. I know Mycroft Holmes and I understand why you did what you did. I commend you for coming in when the agency is in need. You’ll join Bond in his recertification tests and I’ll see you both when you’re through.” I knew a dismissal when I heard it.


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

James and I walked through re-qualifying tests. I was six months back in country and James was three, but he was still recovering from two gunshot wounds and various contusions from his ‘fall’. 

I had met James in a small village outside of Istanbul and taken care of his wounds. I sorted him out with drugs and aftercare, but he refused to let me stay on and I suspect he spent the remainder of that month drunk and strung out with the nearest leggy blonde, or brunette that would take him.

“Thanks for getting the shrapnel out,” he said as we checked our weapons after the marksmanship test. He beat me…just. We walked down the hall to the locker room and changed for the briefing.  
“I would have come with you on that op if you’d asked me you know,” I said.  
“You were on a job there was nothing that you could do,” said James, “I had the ‘chute and it worked, mostly.”  
“So you got the drive back and knocked the guy out, but that junior agent still took the shot?” I shook my head as we walked back out to the conference room.  
“It’s not her fault it’s M, she won’t let that list fall into the wrong hands at any cost,” said James.  
“Why did that list exist to begin with?” I asked, “It seems like a pretty stupid thing to leave lying around to be stolen if you ask me.”  
“Don’t get me started,” said James, “I don’t even know how we were the ones protecting the damn thing, I mean it’s a list of NATO agents for gods sake.”  
“Forgive my ignorance, but I didn’t even know NATO had an intelligence branch,” I said.  
“Generally speaking they don’t,” said Tanner, “The list was of agents we’d informed NATO about and with whom we were actioning the aggregated intelligence.”  
“So instead of sharing all intel, we just shared the intel of a few select agents?” I asked.  
“Exactly,” said Tanner, “it was at best a stop gap measure before the NATO council started requesting permission to create their own intelligence unit.”  
“God forbid,” said James sardonically. We sat down around the small briefing table. Tanner passed James a file. “Shanghai?”  
“Patrice is there for a job, get what you can and then terminate him, for Ronson,” said Tanner.  
“With pleasure,” said James slipping quickly into 007 mode.  
“What don’t I get a party favor?” I asked.  
“No you don’t get any favors,” said M as she strode into the room, followed at a more sedate pace by, I winced, Mycroft Holmes.

M dismissed James and Tanner and I was left with M and Mycroft’s patronizing and penetrating stare.   
“Am I to be hung for treason then?” I asked leaning back in my chair a smile rolling across my face.  
“Are you doing this to punish him?” asked Mycroft mildly.  
“Believe it or not, my entire life doesn’t revolve around him,” I said, “it hasn’t for quite some time, and that was his decision.”  
“He thinks you have forgiven him,” said Mycroft.  
“This isn’t a domestic Mycroft, I’m not here out of some petty vendetta. James asked me to come in to help with this event,” I said.  
“What is it he expects you to do?” asked Mycroft.  
“It’s personal,” I said my eyes flicked to M who wasn’t happy about being cut out of the conversation. Mycroft stood up and buttoned up his jacket. He took hold of his umbrella and turned back to me.  
“Should this endeavor result in your demise,” he said, “What would you have me tell Sherlock and your betrothed?”  
“Lie to them,” I said, “but leave enough crumbs that if they want to they can avenge me. If that’s applicable.”  
“As you wish,” said Mycroft, “I’ll see you at the club, upon your return.”  
“Of course,” I said.  
“That’s it?” said M irritated.  
“What else would there be?” asked Mycroft.  
“You changed your name and faked you death to avoid this conversation?” asked M.  
“Of course not,” said Mycroft, “he changed his name and faked his death to prevent me from putting him in a box for two years.”  
“And now?” asked M.  
“And now it’s too late and I have other matters to attend to,” said Mycroft.

************

Q gave me a smirk when I came down to the bull pen after my meeting with M.  
“So who is 005 today?” he asked.  
“Bugger off,” I told him with a friendly shove, “just leave it all as is. Anyone who needs to know the truth does, and anyone who should know better will when the time comes.”  
“So the detective doesn’t know yet,” said Q. To this day I don’t know how it can type code and carry on a conversation at the same time, but there he was typing away.  
“How are you doing after the explosion?” I asked trying not to think about Sherlock.  
“Slightly concussed and bruised in places I don’t want to think about,” he said, “nothing too serious. I’m more concerned with the state of the network. For an agency built for secrets you’d think they’d have better security.”  
“I’m sure you’ll whip it into shape,” I said.  
“Yes, I hope quickly enough to prevent further attacks,” he said.  
“James get off to Shanghai okay?” I asked.  
“James? Oh, 007, yes, gun radio, ageist remarks. It’s his ilk that are holding the agency back, all that money my predecessor wasted on gadgets could have gone to a redundant server farm down here so I wouldn’t have to be setting up nearly from scratch with day old back-ups.”  
“James isn’t nearly as bad as his reputation makes out,” I said, “I’m sure you two will make a great team in the end.”  
“I can’t hardly wait,” said Q dryly. 

I joined James in Tai Pai, and James was in rare form telling me about this green junior agent who had joined him once and had the balls to turn him down despite flirting with him like there was no tomorrow.  
“She shaved me John,” he said doing just that in the hotel bathroom while I lounged on the bed big enough for a dozen people. “And then she went back to her own room. I mean who does that?”  
“And this is the same agent that shot you?” I asked.  
“She didn’t hit me this time,” said James, “she missed.”  
“Oh, so you weren’t shot off that bridge you fell?”  
“I jumped,” said James. I shot him a look.  
“Backwards?”  
“I dodged,” he hedged.  
“You dodged into mid-air,” I dead-panned.  
“I had the super-compact base-jumping ‘chute,” said James with a shrug.  
“How many times have you actually died doing that ‘jump’?” I asked.  
“I choose not to answer that,” said James stepping out of the bathroom. He’d shaved and scrubbed up to his usual polished self. I stood up and pulled on my own dinner jacket and straighted my tie.  
“Why are we going to this casino at all?” I asked, “we know which boat she’s on, and which island it’ll take us to.”  
“Yeah, but I want to be able to keep her away from the island,” said James.  
“You care for this one?” I asked.  
“I’m just not as blase about taking advantage of a trauma victim as I once was,” said James. “You can do your thing and drug the body guards, and we’ll take the boat after she’s been sent to a safe house.”  
“Then let’s go,” I said.

 

Things went quite well actually, we got on the boat and we were sailed straight to the island. James activated the tracker, and I hid in the hold. They took James up to the main complex and I trailed them by a few minutes. The bad guy, a man with astonishingly bad hair was doing his best to be the typical over the top villain, complete with monologuing and vague threats. I shot him in the head while James made his move with the guards. We drank scotch in the courtyard while the evac choppers found a place to land.  
“How does this lead to M’s death?” I asked.  
“The first time I let him live,” said James, “he had some elaborate plan to escape and kidnap M…I was young and stupid. I thought I could take care of it all myself.” He shook his head. “He’s got a partner, or a second in command I’ve never found him not in the last few lives anyway.”  
“Maybe Q will find something on his computer,” I said, “He’s a hacker he might have some electronic life.”

*************

I went back to my life. I could feel myself pulling away from Mary, from any mention of the wedding, we hadn’t even settled on a date. She could tell I was different and I suppose that’s what spurred her on to her next move.   
We had a good date. It wasn’t anything extraordinary; dinner and a video and making out. I stayed over at her place and we had breakfast together. It was nice almost like it used to be. 

A week later we were all at Baker st. Sherlock had appointed himself wedding planner and was discussing some initial plans with Mary when he stopped mid-stream to look at her.  
“You’re pregnant,” he said abruptly. Mary blinked in shock.  
“No I’m not,” she said, “I can’t be.”  
“You’ve done nothing, but snack, since you got here,” said Sherlock, “despite John mentioning that you’d had a big breakfast before leaving the house, you’ve used the bathroom no less than four times in the passed hour, and you teared up at the cute puppy picture in that pop-up ad.”

The test was positive, of course it was because he’s Sherlock Bloody Holmes and he’s almost always right.


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

About a month after the baby bomb exploded we were running away from some drug dealers (long story). Anyway, we finally lost them by coming down a narrow alley. We were breathing heavy as the clock in the distance struck 2am. I slid down the wall giddy and exhausted.  
“The baby’s not mine,” I said, wiping sweat from my face.  
“I know,” said Sherlock. He leaned back against the wall opposite taking a lungful of air.  
“When did you know?” I asked.  
“When I saw your face. You knew that the child couldn’t be yours the moment you learned she was pregnant and she knew too.”  
I nodded taking a second to get my breath back.  
“How do you know?” he asked tilting his head to the side considering me.  
“I can’t have children,” I said simply.  
“Since when?” he asked.  
“Since I did a project on human reproduction in med-school and tested my own sperm count.”  
“Low?”   
“Almost non-existent, I had to use a frozen sample for my project.”  
“Do you care?” he asked.  
“About what? That I can’t have kids, or that on top of everything else Mary cheated on me and is carrying another man’s child?”  
“Both,” said Sherlock.  
“I’ve had a lot of years to come to terms with the idea that I won’t ever have genetically related children,” I said and sighed. “As for Mary, well, she has a lot of secrets. This is one of the few I’ve managed to figure out.”  
“But you know she is not who she claims to be,” said Sherlock frowning.  
“Who in all the world is really who they claim to be?” I asked.  
“You,” said Sherlock. He was serious, and I felt like he’d stabbed me in the chest.  
“I’m not you know,” I said, “I have my own secrets.”  
“Please,” Sherlock scoffed, “what secrets do you have?”  
“If I told you they wouldn’t be secrets now would they?”  
Sherlock scowled at me.  
“What are you going to do about Mary?” he asked.  
“I don’t know,” I said, “I still love her, but…” but I was trying to recreate a relationship I’d had with her several lifetimes ago, “I think I asked her to marry me because I was proving a point.”  
“What point?” asked Sherlock.  
“There was a time when I believed I could live a happy normal life, that I could be the husband to a wife. I think Mary has that dream too. We’re both pretending to be people we’re not and I could go with that for a while at least, everyone has the right to fool themselves, it’s as close to normal as some of us gets. But the baby…” I sighed, “I don’t know if that’s fair on anyone.”   
“Do you want to be a father?” asked Sherlock.  
“I don’t know,” I said, “I haven’t thought about it really, not since I found out I’d never have my own kids. Still I’ve never been a dad, it’s something new.” Before Sherlock could get his mind around that thought, footsteps started running closer. “Come on!” I grabbed his coat and we ran deeper into the depths of London.

  
******  
I’m careful with drugs and alcohol. I wasn’t always, but I wouldn’t characterize myself as an addict. The years and lives are long and finding ways to make them interesting is a common pastime for our kind. I experimented in my early lives with various substances and the only thing I learned was that there was no satisfaction to be found in self-medicating. Our lives our memories follow us wherever we go, and spending an eternity in a drugged haze is more boring that dealing with stuff and moving on. My problem is that I’m a chatty drunk. Whenever I am passed a certain point of inebriation I start to talk. All my stoic reserve goes out the window. As an agent we’re trained to fight this type of reaction to drugs whatever form they take, and the general rule is if you can’t be quiet say a whole lot of nothing. Spew out every random thought that comes into your head except anything pertinent to national security.

Sherlock knows this about me and has been experimenting with the types of liquor for the life of our friendship, he does this through the changing of the alcohol in the house he monitors the levels and I mess with him by watering it down so inexplicably the levels will actually go up instead of down. It’s a game, and it’s fun. But in practice I very rarely if I can help it, get drunk.

There is one exception, and that’s the night that Harry dies. I don’t know why it always hits me so hard, we’re not that close anymore. I’ve tried several lives to get her into rehab, sometimes she goes, sometimes not, but ultimately it doesn’t matter she dies of alcohol poisoning around my 40th year, sometime sooner sometimes later. I know it seems counter intuitive that I mourn my foster sister’s alcoholic death with an alcohol binge of my own, but somewhere along the line I figured she’d be touched by the tribute, that someone somewhere was raising a bottle to her in the next life.

I bought a bottle of 12 year old malt and walked over to Baker street after work. I didn’t want Mary to see me like that, and Sherlock was out of town on a case that he was all excited about. I pulled the bottle out of it’s brown paper bag, and poured myself a generous serving.

“Here’s to you Harry,” I said holding up the glass for a moment before downing it and pouring a second generous helping. I was about a third of the way in to the bottle when Sherlock showed up.   
“John?” He was suddenly stood in front of me frowning.  
“Sherlock!” I grinned my drunken grin at him, then I frowned too, “you’re supposed to be on a case.”  
“I came back to collate some data,” he said, “Why are you here drinking alone in the dark?”  
“Harry,” I said, “I’m drinking to Harry.”  
“Is it her birthday?” asked Sherlock.  
“Nooo,” I said, blinking at him blearily, “it’s her death day.” I heard a gasp from somewhere behind me. “Is someone here?” I looked blearily around.  
“Nevermind,” said Sherlock he was crouched down in front of me, and I hadn’t seen him move.  
“I’m drunk,” I said to Sherlock.  
“So I see, why are you here?” he asked, “why aren’t you with Mary?”  
“Mary’s not the same,” I said, “I’m not the same. Harry’s dead now, and I didn’t want to deal with both.”  
“What happened to Harry, John?” asked Sherlock.  
“I tried to save her,” I grabbed Sherlock’s hands, “I really tried. I got her counseling and rehab and everything. I tried so hard to help her and show her how to channel it.”  
“Channel it?” asked Sherlock.  
“Her angry heart,” I said, “we don’t share blood, but we share an angry heart and I channel it and use it for fuel. But Harry only ever tried to drown it, but you can’t douse fire by pouring alcohol on it. She burns too hot, she always has.” I was crying by this point, I’m not sure why. I hadn’t had this severe a reaction to Harry’s death in a long time. Last life I sat up all night nursing the bottle until dawn and then I went to bed. I was still holding Sherlock’s hands, he hadn’t moved a muscle while I spoke, and my tears splashed down on our fingers. I looked up to his face and he was white as a sheet. “It’s okay Sherlock,” I said releasing his hands, “I’m going to finish my tribute upstairs.” I tried to push myself up, but I was a couple of sheets to the wind, and Sherlock still hadn’t moved.  
“What happened?” asked Sherlock quietly.  
“I got a call this afternoon,” I said rubbing my hands over my face trying to shake off the booze, “they found her in the bathroom of a Chelsea nightclub she choked on her own vomit they think.”  
“I’m sorry, John,” said Sherlock he looked at the door and back at me like he was planning an escape, “would you like me to get Mrs. Hudson?” I smiled at him thin and brittle.  
“No,” I said, “I’m just going to finish the bottle, and nurse a hangover while calling funeral parlors tomorrow. You don’t have to do anything.” I picked up my glass and drained it. Sherlock was still crouched in front of me. I leaned back in the chair suddenly exhausted. “I just wish I were strong enough to let her go,” I sighed closing my eyes.  
“She’s your sister,” said Sherlock.  
“I couldn’t save her, I tried and tried, but she doesn’t want it from me. It always hurts, even though it’s inevitable. I should talk to Mycroft find out if he has a Vulcan mind trick to help him.”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“He doesn’t seem to feel anything,” I said, “the iceman, isn’t that what Adler called him? That’s wrong though, he has to still feel it there’s no other explanation.”  
“My brother doesn’t feel anything,” said Sherlock, “What makes you think otherwise?”  
“He’s still trying to save you,” I said, “he’s so proper, but he really meant it when he said he worries about you constantly. I hardly worry about Harry anymore, I knew she was on a bad patch, but I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. We had a fight, she was drunk and angry, and I was just angry and she told me that I wasn’t her real brother and I should just butt out. I did, and now she’s dead.”  
“That’s not your fault John,”said Sherlock.  
“I should be a better brother,” I said, “Like Mycroft, but without the British government. I don’t have the patience to do that, I’m just a solider, and a doctor and I know how to walk away from a lost cause,” I sighed deeply, “I should be a better brother, but she’s right she isn’t really my sister and somehow we’ve never got passed that.”  
“Isn’t really your sister?” asked Sherlock.  
“Did I actually manage to keep something from the great Sherlock Holmes?” I asked almost pleased, but mostly just drunk. “She’s my foster sister, Sherlock. I was fostered, left on a doorstep and passed around for a while.” I leaned into him and whispered, “my best secret is the one I don’t even know myself.”  
“What’s that?” asked Sherlock.  
“I don’t know where I come from, or why I’m here,” I said.  
“You should go home to Mary,” said Sherlock, “I’m not good at this.”  
“Mary is a cheater and a liar,” I said, “and if I wasn’t planning my sister’s funeral I’d go tell her so. I just don’t want to be alone all the time. Mary was a good person once, but when I tell her I know about the baby, I’ll be alone again. The last time I was really alone I went overseas and killed a bunch of people.”  
“You won’t be alone this time John,” said Sherlock, “you’ll have me.”  
“I don’t have you though do I?” I said, feeling more maudlin by the second, “if I really had you then you wouldn’t have left me.” That gave Sherlock pause, he even opened his mouth to speak and then closed it without saying anything. “Just ignore me Sherlock, I’m drunk, and depressed,” I said shooing him from me with a tired gesture.  
“I left to protect you,” said Sherlock, “I thought you understood that.”  
“When was I supposed to understand that?” I asked laying back in the chair with my arm over my eyes. “When you took a few minutes to explain the plan to me before hand? No you didn’t do that did you? Oh, when you came back you found out where I lived and knocked on the door and immediately apologized before explaining why it was necessary to leave the way you did? No, no you appeared out of nowhere at a restaurant and made a joke out of it. You never apologized, you never explained, you never take responsibility for the messes you create and they’re big messes Sherlock, huge. I am not talking about this to you again, I’m too drunk, and my sister is dead and I can only deal with so many things.” I forced myself to stand up and regretted it immediately as the room did an awful lurch, I was going down and there was nothing I could do about it. Sherlock grabbed my arms as the edges of my vision started to grey out and before I completely passed I could have sworn I heard him say.  
“I’m sorry, John.”

 


	19. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

I woke up the next morning with a jackhammer doing the 1812 overture on my skull and to the image of Mycroft sitting in my old armchair reading the morning paper.   
“Morning,” I said, heaving myself to an upright position from where I was lay on the couch.  
“Are you responsible for my brother’s recent slip off the wagon?” asked Mycroft.  
“What?” I asked blinking at him blearily and absently wondering why my mouth tasted and felt like it had been recently paved in hot tar and asphalt.  
“Sherlock was spotted in the small hours of the morning leaving a known drug den,” said Mycroft.  
“My condition is unrelated,” I said, “I came here so I could get drunk in honor of Harry, may she rest in peace in death as she never could in life.” I heard a noise in the kitchen and saw that Anderson, and another of his Empty Hearse people were routing around in the cupboards.  
“For god’s sake!” cried Sherlock as he came storming out of his bedroom, the door slamming shut behind him.  
“It’s for your own good Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “You’re a celebrity now, you can’t have a drug habit.”  
“I do not have a drug habit,” said Sherlock.  
“Why were you in a known drug den looking like you’d just been rolled in last month’s laundry?” asked Mycroft.  
“Charles Augustus Magnussen,” said Sherlock, and I had the pleasure of watching Mycroft’s face pale and then turn an interested in shade of puce.  
Anderson and his lackey were quickly dispatched and I similarly escorted Mycroft out with a look that said ‘I’ll talk to you later’. Then I watched dumbfounded at Sherlock’s display of lovie-dovieness with Janine Mary’s friend whom Sherlock had met at the engagement party a few months prior. After that display was over and Janine was gone, I sat down with a cup of tea, and a bottle of aspirin.

“Do you want to talk about Harry?” asked Sherlock. I closed my eyes, I’d managed to forget about Harry, but now it was all coming back to me making me very, very sick. I ran for the bathroom. After expelling the contents of my stomach, and taken half a bottle of aspirin for my headache. I told Sherlock I needed to go take care of Harry’s arrangements. It was something I always did alone. Sherlock insisted on coming with me, through Molly he’d apparent cultivated a lot of contacts in the death industry, and before I knew it we’d arranged a memorial service, and cremation for my foster sister for early the following week. Molly at Sherlock’s request confirmed the cause of death was accidental and gave me the number of a grief counselor. I don’t think Harry’s death has ever had so much attention and neither have I as her grieving brother.

Sherlock ordered Chinese when we got home, we ate quietly, and comfortably together in the living room.  
“Are you okay?” asked Sherlock.  
“I don’t know,” I said leaning back wiping the greasy food off my mouth, “Harry and I were never close, we could never find any common ground. I always wanted to help her, but she wasn’t interested.”  
“You tried,” said Sherlock, “speaking from experience you can’t help someone out an addiction unless they’re ready for it.”  
“It’s too late now, but I wish she could have been my real family. I’ve never had a real family,” I said, “my foster parents took care of us, but it was always there that I didn’t quite fit. I wasn’t a part of them. Is it selfish to mourn my sister because she wasn’t really my sister?”  
“I don’t know,” said Sherlock, “I have Mycroft who’s generally insufferable, but we are brothers; I have my parents, who are eccentric in their views, but I never doubted that I belonged with them. The only thing I ever wanted as a child was a real friend.”  
“Thank you for coming with me today,” I said, “having you there made things easier.”  
“Thank you for letting me help,” said Sherlock. We sat quietly for a few more minutes, until he said, “Are you going to tell Mary about Harry?”  
“I don’t know,” I said, “I should tell her; she’s my fiancee. She should have been the one with me today.”  
“Then why didn’t you tell her?” asked Sherlock.  
“Because I’d rather spend time with you even if it is shopping for urns,” I said.

I spent the night in my old room and the next morning Sherlock was his old manic self expostulating over his case. He explained about Magnussen the Napoleon of blackmail and his great depository of black mail and pressure points all housed at Appledore. Then we met Magnussen, a more irredeemable man I’m not sure I’ve ever met. At least Moriarty had a flare for drama and he made you part of his show. Magnussen was simply a parasite. I almost killed him on the spot, the security took my knife, but his pat down was very sloppy he missed the 22 in my ankle holster. I could have saved us all a lot of trouble.

That night we went to Magnussen’s office, and Sherlock being Sherlock faked proposing to get us up the lift.

“Did she faint?” asked Sherlock when we got up and found Janine on the floor, “Do they really do that?”  
“It’s a blow to the head,” I said checking her over, as Sherlock went ahead and found a security guy unconscious.

“Hey. They must still be here,” I whispered as Sherlock checked the other room.

“So’s Magnussen. His seat’s still warm. He should be at dinner but he’s still in the building. Upstairs!” he cried.

“We should call the police,” I said and took out my phone.

“During our own burglary?! You’re really not a natural at this, are you?” asked Sherlock

“No, wait, shh!” Sherlock took a deep breath of air, “Perfume – not Janine’s. Claire-de-la-lune. Why do I know it?”

“Mary wears it,” I said.

“No, not Mary. Somebody else.” Sherlock heard a noise and ran off. I called after him, but I couldn’t leave Janine like that.

After a minute I ran up to see what was going on and found Sherlock on the ground. It was the most excruciating night of my life. Watching him fight for his life and watching him lose. He was clinically dead for three minutes, I don’t know what brought him back, but for all my lives it was one of the happiest moments I’ve ever experienced watching that monitor start to beep again.

******  
Mary made her confession in the empty house at Leinster Gardens. We reconvened at Baker st. and then we had it out. A.G.R.A god knows what that is, but I know one thing; it’s not actually her initials. I watched the paramedics take Sherlock back to the hospital and asked Mrs. Hudson to go with him and keep watch until I could come. The house was empty. Silent.   
“Sit back down,” I told Mary and she did. I could almost see the hope on her face, the hope that I would buy the story that Sherlock had spun and believe that she hadn’t meant to kill him in the first place.  
“You should thank him,” I said. She looked at me, “you tried to kill him and he’s trying to save your life. He’s trying to save you for me.”  
“But…” she frowned. But I plowed through her objection.  
“I knew,” I said, “I knew you were a killer.” Her frown deepened and she looked like she wanted to say something, but stopped herself. “I thought you were like me; a killer trying to figure out how to go without killing. You see for me, it’s not about the kill.”  
“It’s about the hunt,” she said understanding burning in her eyes as if she too was seeing me now for the first time.  
“That’s not you though is it?” I said, “You’re not a hunter, you’re not like me, you’re just in it for the blood.” She sighed, and I went on, “you grabbed at Sherlock’s theory like a drowning person grabs a life-ring. But I know why you didn’t kill him outright, and why you called the ambulance as well.”  
“Why then?” she asked sitting back from me, to someone else she looked like she was relaxing, but to me she was retreating.  
“You were stalling me,” I said, “you knew if Sherlock had even the most remote chance of survival that I’d stay with him, but if he was dead I’d be after you like a shot. You shot him in the chest because you wanted him out, but not dead by the time I came up, if you’d gone for another spot that would ensure a slower death you could have gone for the gut shot, but that would mean he’d probably be able to maintain consciousness and tell me who shot him. You’re lucky he survived, if he’d died we wouldn’t even be having this conversation you’d be dead, maybe by my hand but more likely at the hand of one of Mycroft’s people. So you’re going to leave now and not come back.”  
“But Sherlock…” she started.  
“Sherlock’s trying to save me from having to choose between the two of you. He’s afraid that I haven’t forgiven him and I might leave if he’s too angry with you. But we both know I’m going to choose him. Mary I love you, even after everything I still remember how good we had it, but I realize that I can’t go back we are not the people we were before.”  
“But the baby,” she said.  
“Is not mine,” I said, “we both know that.” She ducked her head and looked away. “Sherlock and I will take care of Magnussen’s files, and if needed Magnussen as well.”  
“So you’re just going to let me leave?” she asked.  
“Sherlock fervently wants to believe you didn’t intend to kill him in the first place rather than just choosing to kill him slowly, and I won’t disabuse him of that notion. You get to go and start a new life as a mother and maybe that will help calm your killer and give you something to protect.”  
“Do you think that will work?” she asked. I shrugged.  
“It worked for me.”


	20. Chapter 19

I moved back into Baker st. And went back to work at the clinic. I couldn’t let the life I’d been building disintegrate just because Mary was an unfaithful assassin and Sherlock was nearly her latest victim. Sherlock said he had a plan for Magnussen for after he was released from the hospital, but he was months away from recovery, especially after his escape barely a week after being shot. He was bored and loud about it, so I went about arranging distractions for him. Lestrade brought cold cases, and Molly brought various autopsy reports for him to read and familiarize himself with the signs of the various causes of death. I visited him every day after work and we watched evening TV and played games. I was going up to the ward to see him with the duty nurse caught my attention.  
“Dr. Watson,” she said.  
“Yes?”  
“This was left for you at the desk this morning,” she held out an envelope for me.  
“Thank you,” I said and took it from her. She went back to her charts and I continued up the hall. I opened the packet and pulled out a newspaper clipping. It was in Arabic dated more than a year ago, the picture showed an explosion and a post-it note on top read. “005 strikes again! Not so noble after all doctor? CAM” I shoved the page back into the envelope and folded it into my jacket pocket.  
I sent a text to Q asking him to check access on my file. How the hell had Magnussen managed to figure out who I was? I thought about it for a moment and sent another text to Mycroft.   
CAM 005 Leak? - JW  
Sherlock knew something was off the moment I came in.  
“John thank god! I’m so bored everyone here is an idiot…what’s wrong?” he asked.  
“Magnussen knows that Mary and I broke up,” I said.  
“So?” asked Sherlock.  
“So now he can’t use her to get to you through me, he’s going directly through me,” I said.  
“What could he possibly use against you?” asked Sherlock. I looked around the room and spotted no less than five security devices. Sherlock saw me looking. “We can’t talk here you could bust me out and take me home,” he said.  
“No, you’re not strong enough,” I said.  
“I need to get out of this room John,” said Sherlock,”and you need to tell me what the hell is going on. You never even told me what happened with Mary.”  
“You can’t get out of bed Sherlock you’ve had two major surgeries in the passed fortnight, and you died.”  
“How long are you going to hold that against me?” asked Sherlock with a huff, and I noted easing himself back carefully on to the pillows.  
“As long as it takes for you to get it into your head that rushing head long into the sights of a trained killer is not at all a good idea.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and I couldn’t help but smile.

Sherlock wouldn’t let it go, dogs had given up bones more easily, and I did my best but I couldn’t divert him for more than a week.  
“You stopped dating,” said Sherlock as we walked up the stairs to the roof of the hospital. The roof was a compromise because he was starting to go stir crazy laying in bed and was getting that ‘running away’ look in his eyes.  
“What?” I asked getting whiplash from Sherlock’s conversation switch. We had been talking about going to his parent’s cottage for Christmas when he was finally released to come home. He asked me if Mary would join us, and I said no.  
“After we met, after that first year or so, you stopped dating,” said Sherlock.  
“I had dates,” I said frowning.  
“You had flings,” said Sherlock, “three dates, sex and done and you never brought any of them back to the flat.”  
“Sherlock you sabotaged every relationship I had, of course I stopped bringing people over!”  
“But you stopped trying,” said Sherlock. I climbed up on a broken chimney stack and sat down watching the first lights of dawn pull at the horizon, pale cream, and pink with orange just starting to seep into the skyline.  
“Why do people have relationships Sherlock?” I asked.  
“Hormones, neural transmitters, procreation imperatives, mutually beneficial reciprocity,” he said with a shrug.  
“So they’re not alone, so that they have someone to do things with, to share their lives with. People have relationships to keep from being bored,” I said with a smile, “that’s a concept you should understand.”  
“I don’t understand,” said Sherlock.  
“People need other people to fill the time between birth and death,” I said, “you filled the time perfectly well.”  
“I did?”  
“You did,” I said, “but then you left me. You left in the worst way possible. You left leaving not just a bunch of time to fill, but a hole. A great sucking void of a lifetime I thought I’d spend running after you of being your friend. I was lost again spinning without direction, and it’s not good a thing for someone like me to not have a purpose.”  
“So what did you do?” he asked.  
“I killed myself,” I said realizing the truth of this for the first time. “With you I had become a different John Watson than I had ever been before. I was a better man because that’s who you needed me to be and I came so close to really believing that’s who I was, and I would have followed you forever just so I could be that man for a little longer.”  
“You are a good man,” said Sherlock, “a better man than me.”  
“I’ve just had more time to perfect the role,” I said.  
“We’re the same age!” said Sherlock.  
“And how long have you actually been trying to be the good guy?” I asked.  
“Good point,” said Sherlock smiling a little. “So you killed the good guy, you killed the John Watson you were when I met you.”  
“Yes,” I said.  
“Who did you become?”  
“Someone else, a killer,” I said.  
“You were always a killer,” he said, “I knew that the moment I set eyes on you. You’re also a good man.”  
“A good man and a killer,” I said.  
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, John,” said Sherlock.  
“Mary is a killer,” I said, “Is she a good person too?”  
“I don’t know,” said Sherlock. After a minute or so he turned to me. “Is that what Magnussen has on you? Something you did while I was away?”  
I pulled the envelope out my pocket and handed it to him. Sherlock pulled out the clipping and read the post-it.   
“Oh,” he said, “did Mycroft know?”  
“Not then,” I said, “I changed my identity to join, but I helped out on a situation a couple of months ago, it came to light then.”  
“What did he say when he found out?” asked Sherlock.  
“He asked me what he should do if I died,” I said.  
“What did you tell him?”  
“I told him to tell you an obvious lie, and let you decide to avenge me if you wanted to.” Sherlock smiled at that and looked away.  
“Of course I would avenge you John,” he said. He stood up with a groan and I helped him walk back inside to his bed and the next shot of painkiller.


	21. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

“When was the last time you killed someone?” asked Sherlock out of the blue one afternoon. We were playing cards and I for once was winning.  
“Where the hell did that come from?” I asked.  
“Well this business with Mary, and whatnot,” he waved his free hand to encompass his getting shot and almost dying and finding out that my fiancee was an assassin who was the one who’d shot and almost killed him. “I just wondered how long it’s been.”  
“Not that it matters, but I was in Tai Pai a few months ago and a guy I was fighting fell into a komodo dragon pit and was eaten. Does that count?” I asked putting down a card and picking one up.  
“Well technically that would be the dragon’s kill,” said Sherlock frowning at his cards before retrieving one and laying down another. “Komodo dragons really?”  
“What can I say once these villains get a bit of money they’re way too flashy with it, exotic pets, massive lairs, ostentatious lifestyle choices, there’s really no wonder they always get caught.” I grinned picked up a card and threw one down, “Gin.”  
“Damn-it!” said Sherlock, “you have to be cheating!”  
“I am not!” I said, “that’s 4 games to zero. Want to try again?”  
“No,” he said petulantly.  
“Spoil sport,” I said with a smile.  
“I’m so bored!” He threw himself back on to the bed and almost hid the wince at the impact.  
“Just another week and we’ll be ensconced in Casa del Holmes for the holiday week,” I said.  
“A week!” he cried, “I won’t last a week with my parents John!”  
“And Mycroft,” I said helpfully.  
“Oh god,” he said pulling a pillow over his face. He went still for a second and I almost thought he’d fallen asleep. “Mycroft will be there? That’s perfect, I need to make some calls.” I collected up the cards and started putting them away.  
“Don’t over do it,” I said pointing, “and I know you’re scheming something about Magnussen, but he’s been quiet for the last few weeks, maybe he’s decided it’s not a good risk.”  
“Magnussen doesn’t give up, he sent you two more clippings, but he hasn’t asked you for anything yet it’s only a matter of time; he needs to be dealt with.”  
“I know,” I said, “but you don’t have to be the one to do it. I’m not without skills as you so pointedly reminded me.”  
“What are you going to do? Throw a komodo dragon at him?” asked Sherlock.  
“Now there’s an idea,” I said dodging Sherlock’s pillow with a grin.

  
************  
A few days before Sherlock was due to be released I came home to find James and Q in my flat. The two men had struck up something of a friendship in the months after the attack on MI6.  
“You’ve found something,” I said when I came in and saw them.  
“The breach of 6’s servers was extensive, but I was able to disable the network quite quickly after the explosion. They didn’t expect that,” said Q, “but they were able to get access to a lot of things, most notably high level personnel files.”  
“But Silva is dead,” I said, “and we recovered his system.”  
“Remember when I said Silva had a partner that helped him utilize his information?” said James.  
“Magnussen,” I said dropping into an armchair. James handed me a glass of something and I drank it without looking.  
“Right,” said James, “Silva’s been his main source for intel for years, but since we took care of him he’s looking for a new source.”  
“But what does that have to do with me? And Mary? He’s using the MI6 info to put pressure on me because…?”  
“Mary was a pressure point on you,” said James, “but when that didn’t work he’s putting the pressure on you directly and you are a pressure point for…”  
“Sherlock,” I said and sighed, “and Sherlock is the biggest pressure point for Mycroft who runs the British government.”  
“Hurting you, hurts Sherlock and that’s something Mycroft won’t allow,” said James.  
“No,” I said, “but even Mycroft isn’t going to commit treason to save his brother some discomfort.”  
“He knows about all your missions John,” said Q, “he can bring you to the attention of some unforgiving foreign governments.”  
“People who want me dead,” I said, “probably the same with Mary too.”  
“I thought Mary was out of the picture,” said James.  
“Just because we broke up and she’s carrying another man’s child doesn’t mean I want her dead,” I said. “What can we do?” I asked, “Magnussen’s had this intel for years but he hasn’t been taken out. Why?”  
“He’s got things on the people who make those decisions,” said Q, “and until now he’s been smart about his targets, celebrities and politicians, no one of any real power or influence on a grand scale.”  
“But he’s lost his pipeline of information,” said James, “he’s looking for a new one.”  
“He’s not being very smart about it,” I said.  
“That may be to our advantage,” said Q, “all you need to do is find out where he’s keeping his information and destroy it.”  
“And him,” said James.  
“At his house Appledore,” I said, “he has a vault or something. Sherlock knows about it, I think he plans to break in.”  
“Consider it you next mission then, 005,” said Q.  
“If you need back up call me,” said James.

********

There’s nothing like a Holmes Christmas party, seriously it’s the only place I know that you pass out from drinking non-alcoholic beverages. Sherlock said it was the only way to get Mycroft’s laptop and lure Magussen, but personally I think it was an opportunity to drug his brother and watch him fall face first into a salad.

Appledore was the most pretentious house I’d ever seen, and I’ve eaten with Kings. But then again it’s those that don’t hold real power that need to remind you that they have it. They didn’t search us this time, amateurs. I had my browning Q modified so that only I could fire it, and I had a few small knives for good measure.

Magnussen was smugly watching me being pulled out a bonfire and it took me a second to understand how utterly unredeemable this man truly was. He was going to die; I might not be the one to pull trigger, but he was so full of himself and his perception of his own worth that he thought he was invincible. I knew without a doubt that he would die very soon.

“Oh. It was you,” said Sherlock looking at the screen.  
“Yes, of course,” said Magnussen. “Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr Holmes. The drugs thing I never believed for a moment. Anyway, you wouldn’t care if it was exposed, would you? But look how you care about John Watson. Your damsel in distress.”  
“You ... put me in a fire ... for leverage?” I asked.  
“Oh, I’d never let you burn, Doctor Watson,” said Magnussen, “I had people standing by. I’m not a murderer ... unlike you and your fiancee.”  
“I’m not a murderer, and Mary is gone,” I said.  
“You forget, I know what you’ve done, and I know what she’s done,” he said, “Let me explain how leverage works, Doctor Watson.” Magnussen stood and turned off the video of the bonfire, he turned back to us, “For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well ... apart from me.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at that.  
“Mycroft’s pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock.” Magnussen went on blithely unaware of his approaching death. “And Sherlock’s pressure point is his best friend, John Watson. John Watson’s pressure point is his reputation and his family. I own John Watson ... I own Mycroft.” He sat down on his imaginary throne, “He’s what I’m getting for Christmas.” Sherlock shoved Mycroft’s laptop towards him on the couch.  
“This isn’t a gift,” said Sherlock, “it’s an exchange.”  
“I already have it,” said Magnussen.  
“It’s encrypted,” said Sherlock, “I’ll give you the password in exchange for all your information on the woman I know as Mary Morstan, and John Watson.”  
“Oh those two are bad,” said Magnussen, “you should see what I’ve seen.”  
“I don’t need to see it,” said Sherlock.  
“You might like it,” said Magnussen, “I do.”  
“Then show us then,” said Sherlock.  
“Show you Appledore, the secret vaults?” He looked at me.  
“I want all the information on John and Mary,” said Sherlock.  
“Rivers of blood between those two,” said Magnussen, “Mary’s been at it longer of course, but you’re not that far behind her are you John? You should think about getting back together, you’d be perfect for each other, Mr.and Mrs Psychopath and their pet detective.” He hefted the laptop, “I was hoping for something good.”  
“The contents are…”Sherlock started.  
“Include a GPS locator which Mycroft and his people can follow here and subsequently have probable cause to search the house and find all my other secrets in the vaults.” He stood up and pulled his jacket straight, “shall I show you the entrance?”

We followed him to the closet where he accessed his mind palace, his vaults were nothing more than his brain. No hard copies, no actual records. I almost laughed at the utter stupidity of the man, but I knew Sherlock had a plan and I wanted to see it through for him before I took care of the problem. But then I saw his face, Sherlock was genuinely shocked. The GPS had been his plan and without a vault to search there was nothing but Magnussen between us. My plan was all that was left.


	22. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

I followed him out to the balcony, with Sherlock trailing behind.   
“You have no documentation, no actual proof of anything,” I said.  
“Why do I need proof?” he asked, “I’m in the media. You’ll both be on the news tomorrow for trying to sell state secrets to me.”  
“You just remember things and tell your people to print it?” I asked.  
“Oh that’s so adorable that you’re trying to understand,” said Magnussen, “Mycroft’s people are taking their time aren’t they?”  
“I don’t understand how this was supposed to work,” I said.  
“I know who you and Mary have hurt and killed, I know their phone numbers, and I can tell them exactly where to find you, and her and your family and friends. The people you’ve crossed are not lenient or forgiving,” he said.  
“You idiot!” I said.  
“What?” said Magnussen.  
“That’s it?” I said, “you think you’re the most powerful man alive and your big plan is to tell on me?”  
“John what are you doing?” asked Sherlock.  
“I’m solving the problem Sherlock,” I said.  
“What are you talking about?” asked Magnussen doubt rising in his voice for the first time.  
“Mycroft’s not coming,” I said, “that laptop contains nothing, but my all time high score on solitaire.”  
“Excuse me?” said Magnussen.  
“I said you’re an idiot,” I said stepping toward Magnussen.  
“John?” Sherlock frowned at me. This wasn’t how it was meant to go at all.  
“You’re too cocky Mr. Magnussen,” I said.  
“Am I now?”  
“Here’s the scenario. Sherlock and by extension Mycroft do what you want to protect me, they put untold numbers of lives at risk and eventually it will be too much they’ll weigh the cost of my life with the cost of the damage you’ll cause and it won’t take long for that equation to unbalance. It could even result in an outright no from the start, then where are you? You’ve no choice but to release the information and that, well that would be bad for you all around.”  
“Would it now?” asked Magnussen the smile was still on his face, but it had frozen there.

“You’ve been threatening celebrities and politicians too much. Their fears are ones of exposure and the end of careers, they lose power when you expose their secrets. They are humiliated cowed when these things come out, because lets face it they are only vanity,” I said. “But threatening me is different, you’re threatening to have me killed. You’re threatening to expose those few people I care about to untold dangers.” I shook my head, “You of all people should know you don’t start with the final option,” Magnussen’s face fell. “Your leverage is useless now, you’ve told us that you’re the only copy. That was very stupid of you. Now you’ve left me no choice.” I put my hand in my pocket fingers closing around the cold metal. “You can release the information on me, make me a hunted man, but do you know what happens when a killer is being hunted?” I smiled. “They hunt you back. Now maybe I get taken out before I can get to you. Maybe I can do the deed myself beforehand, hire someone or call in a favor. It all results in the same thing, you’re dead. It doesn’t matter then if I still die as a result of your revealing the truth it all ends the same way, with you dead.” 

Magnussen stood frozen in front of Sherlock and I. A look of concern creeping into his expression. “Anyway you slice it if you reveal the information about me, you’re dead. You’re dead and you don’t get what you want. You lose everything in this gamble, and it was one you were never going to win. Did you really think that threatening killers, and psychopaths would net you a pipeline into national secrets?” I shook my head in disgust. Magnussen had been slowly turning red as my words started to penetrate and at last he moved. He lunged for me with a primal yell. I saw it coming and drew back my fist, I executed a perfect left cross and laid the man out cold, “Idiot,” I sneered.

Sherlock was grinning a like a loon. “That was great!” he said, “I was just going to shoot him.”

“We could,” I said looking down at Magnussen with utter disgust, “I think we should give him to Mycroft, he’s clearly become someone who can be of use to his dealings, and is too dangerous to allow to continue.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “it can be my apology for drugging him.”  
“And stealing state secrets,” I said.  
“It’s not like anyone saw them or anything,” said Sherlock, “and according to you there aren’t any secrets on that laptop anyway.”

Magnussen was detained and Sherlock and I were free to return to Baker st.

“You went there to kill him,” said Sherlock when we were settled back in the flat.  
“I went there to prevent him from using his illegally obtained intel against us, and yes killing him was one of the more likely scenarios,” I said allowing the tension of the day to leave me.  
“I was going to shoot him after he showed us the vaults,” said Sherlock, “That’s why I told you to bring your gun.”  
“Only I shoot my gun,” I said.  
“Mycroft would have protected me,” said Sherlock, “from going to prison.”  
“I’ve got a license to kill,” I said blithely, “but it’s sweet you wanted to protect me.”  
“Sweet?” said Sherlock scowling.  
“Nice,” I said grinning.  
“Sweet and nice are words that are not used to describe me,” said Sherlock.  
“I would have to agree,” said Mycroft as he walked into the living room. He stood in front of the fireplace holding his umbrella in front of him. “Mummy and Father are fine, but wish you had come back for the remainder of the holiday.”  
“I texted to say we were going out,” said Sherlock.  
“Ten minutes after you drugged them,and me,” said Mycroft.  
“A harmless sedative,” said Sherlock, “completely safe.”  
“Why are you here Mycroft?” I asked, “You could have scolded him over the phone for the drugging, and since he delivered an international criminal with ties to a terrorist organization, you think you’d be a little busy.”  
“Indeed,” said Mycroft, “if I had known the extent of Magnussen’s treason I would have of course had him taken in before now.”  
“What I want know is how it got this far,” I said.  
“Excuse me?” said Mycroft.  
“I mean sure Magnussen’s got a media outlet, but you’re seriously telling me over how many years this man has been exposing secrets no one even suspected and not a single person went looking for his sources?” Mycroft’s was face frozen in horrified realization and Sherlock burst out laughing.


	23. Chapter 22

Later...  
As I reflect on my relationship with Sherlock I know that we really came in to our own in that first life. We tested each other and found our boundaries, we learned about each other and how our strengths and weaknesses fit together. I remember the last time I saw Sherlock in that life, we were both old men and I was dying, despite my best efforts, of heart disease.  
“Sherlock,” I smiled when he came in to my room carrying a puzzle book and a jar of his home grown honey.  
“How are you feeling today?” he asked.  
“Feeling pretty spry for a dying man,” I said.  
“So you know,” said Sherlock sitting down by the bed.  
“Of course I know,” I said, “I read my chart, and I know what these symptoms mean.”  
“And you’ve been expecting this for the last five years,” said Sherlock.  
“Yes,” I said, no point lying to him.  
“You’re not going to tell me why,” said Sherlock.  
“I just know the symptoms and saw the early warning signs,” I said.  
“You’re telling the truth, but you’re still hiding something from me,” said Sherlock.  
“I don’t have the energy to fight with you,” I said, “have you got everything ready?”  
“Yes,” said Sherlock with a sigh, “Mrs. Dale has agreed to bring her car tomorrow morning so that we can transport you home.”  
“Good, I want to spend these days on the back porch looking at the gorgeous garden of wild flowers that you have cultivated in the name of science,” I said smiling.  
“I carefully selected those blooms for the best honey,” said Sherlock a grudging smile on his face.  
“Of course you did,” I said my smile widened.

The next day I was wheeled out to Mrs. Dale’s mini-van and then put in state in the back bedroom of the cottage Sherlock and I shared.  
“Mrs. Dale thinks we’re an old married couple,” said Sherlock tucking in the ends of my blanket.  
“I know,” I said lying back a little exhausted by the journey.  
“You don’t correct people about that misconception anymore,” said Sherlock.  
“I don’t think it really matters,” I said, “ours is a relationship they can’t understand so they put the only label on they have that makes sense, trying to correct them is pointless especially at this stage in the game.”  
“I often wondered why you didn’t pursue a romantic attachment after Mary left,” said Sherlock.  
“I realized that I couldn’t have both,” I said, “women are always a pleasure, but sex is a transient distraction and life with you was always so much more…”  
“More what?”  
“More everything! Interesting, exciting, important. What relationship could I have that would ever measure up to you? Even if it did include sex.” Sherlock blushed and busied himself around the room.  
“Are you comfortable?” he asked as he finished unpacking my overnight bag from the hospital.  
“I’m fine,” I said, “could you open the curtains so I can see the garden?”  
Sherlock opened the blinds on the French windows and sunlight flooded the room. I smiled feeling the light and seeing the spring flowers all around the garden.  
“I’ll make some tea,” said Sherlock. He left the room and returned a few minutes later with the tea things on a tray. “Mycroft called before you arrived, he’s coming over later.”  
“Oh does he have a case for you?” I asked.  
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Sherlock, “he knows I’m going to be busy with you.”  
“You don’t have to nanny me Sherlock, if there’s a case you can work it remotely like you’ve done for the past decade.”  
“He’s also going to try and convince me to get treated and I’ve already made up my mind,” he said.  
“Treated? For what? What’s wrong with you?” I asked alarmed.  
“I have a Glioblastoma Multiforme,” said Sherlock while pouring the tea.  
“A brain tumor? Since when? How long have you known about this?”  
“Calm down,” said Sherlock, “I had a CAT scan a week ago, honestly I’m relieved.”  
“Relieved?”  
“My memory lapses, my hand tremors. I thought I was going senile; a most undignified end,” he shook his head, “I am still the world’s greatest detective and I won’t die a drooling idiot.”  
“Did the doctor discuss treatment options?” I asked.  
“Yes, but even in the best of cases survival is usually only a year, 18 months at the outside,” said Sherlock.  
“You’re not even going to try?” I asked.  
“John you are going to die in the next three to five days. I wasn’t going to live much longer anyway, I have no reason to.” I felt tears prick my eyes and we both sat quietly examining our tea cups for a while. After a few minutes I felt myself drifting, I felt the cup lift from my hands and I went to sleep.

When I woke up Mycroft was sat by my side sipping from his own cup and looking out the window. The years had been kind to the elder Holmes and though they showed on his face, they didn’t show in his sure and steady movements.  
“So now we know how Sherlock dies of natural causes,” I said.  
“Yes,” said Mycroft, “not my preference, but at least he’s lived a long and useful life. A happy life. Thank you.”  
“Perhaps we can become friends in the next life Mycroft,” I said, “you, me and Sherlock. We could find some common ground together.”  
“Perhaps,” he said and finished his tea, “I will leave a message for you at the club for when you are ready to join him.”  
“Goodbye Mycroft,” I said watching him get up and go to the door.  
“Until next time, Dr. Watson,” he said and was gone.

I died on a Tuesday, just after 4pm, Sherlock sat with me and held my hand. I tried to speak, but couldn’t so I just held on tighter until the world closed to black.


	24. Epilogue

Epilogue

I saw him and knew him immediately, even though I’d never seen any pictures of Sherlock at such a young age, there was no mistaking that face, with that hair and that expression. Even prepuberty with a little puppy fat covering those infamous cheekbones, I knew. I stuck my hand out to help him up from where the insult he’d just delivered to the local fatheads had landed him. He glared at me, but took my hand.  
“Are you okay?” I asked looking closely at his bloody nose before handing him a wad of tissues.  
“You’re on scholarship here,” he said eying me with a mixture of curiosity and mistrust. “You’re good at sports so they want you to help the football team get out of the atrocious mess they’ve been in for the last decade.”  
“That was brilliant,” I said. “Has the bleeding stopped?” I asked. He checked the tissue.  
“Why are you helping me? I don’t usually get people trying to stop them from throwing me around.”  
“Morons,” I said with a sneer, “I don’t like bullies. Though you could try a bit harder to keep your observations to yourself, maybe you wouldn’t provoke them as much.”  
“They’d find some reason,” said Sherlock, “at least I get my licks in.”  
“You were wrong about one thing though,” I said smiling.  
“What’s that?”  
“I play rugby, not football.”  
“There’s always something,” he said. The bell rang for the end of playtime and Sherlock turned to go.  
“Don’t I get to know your name?” I asked.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” he said and strutted back to the lines returning to class. He stopped looked back at me and said, “Are you coming?”  
“God yes,” I said and ran to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end. I want to thank everyone who gave kudos and comments, you're all lovely! All the best.   
> Cynic.


End file.
